Intentions Verse 1: No intention
by KeelieThompson1
Summary: Sherlock Holmes had his first experience of sex when he was sixteen years old, with a girl who was the daughter of his father's buisiness partner, helped along with a stolen bottle of scotch and a rather ancient looking condom stolen from the wallet of an obnoxious party guest. Somehow, eleven years and three months later, he's faced with ten year old John Watson.(Sequel up)
1. The Arrest

**Disclaimer:** I owe nothing that you recognise.

**Summary:**

Written for the Kinkmeme prompt (and then followed in the loosest possible way!)

Sherlock Holmes had his first experience of sex when he was sixteen years old, with a girl who was the daughter of his father's buisiness partner, helped along with a stolen bottle of scotch and a rather ancient looking condom stolen from the wallet of an obnoxious party guest.

Somehow, eleven years and three months later, he's faced with ten year old John Watson.

**Warnings:** This fic does mention and refer to instances of child abuse -physical, verbal and psychological (and not all of these are in reference to John but to another character). An unusual childhood is mentioned as John grew up in a non-traditional manner and that will continue with Sherlock. On occasion there may be scenes bordering into neglect, depending on how you define it but more out of a forgetful nature then purposeful cruelty. Oh and an awful take on what social services would allow!

**Update:** I have started to go through the chapters and clean the earlier chapters up. The fic is completed but the rest is being edited. It will be sixteen chapters long and then there will be three further parts - "A series of firsts" documenting John and Sherlock's firsts. Then a take on series 1 and 2. The last will be a version of Sherlock returning. I have figured out the dates (finally) and John will be fourteen at the start of s1 in January, turning 15 in the feb and will be 16 when Sherlock 'falls'.

* * *

**The Arrest**

Summary: Arresting the mother of your child isn't always a good idea.

* * *

**13th**** September 2005**

Anna Watson.

Sherlock stared down at the girl (woman now) he had lost his virginity to. The girl he had shared his first cigarette with and used his first ancient condom with.

The only girl he had ever gotten pregnant.

And the only girl to have aborted the child.

It had been a relief at the time. Sort of; babies were utterly detestable creatures but that would only take a year or two and then there would be a personality that he could shape, growth and development that he could record and predict.

But, just as he'd started to get used to the ide, her parents had announced the abortion and she'd vanished. On occasion he'd toyed with the idea that she'd kept 'it', but that had been sentimental rubbish. Alone and pregnant at the age of sixteen; no-one would have chosen that option.

Except here he was, arresting her for murder and a rap sheet on cons and thefts (some of which had actually impressed him) and staring at her, then up at the picture on the wall.

The picture of her with a child. A boy with her sandy blond hair, dark blue-hazel eyes and his mother's mouth. His father's ears. A boy who looked to be about the right age…

_A child._

_A son._

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked, sounding puzzled.

Anna was avoiding his gaze.

"You lied," he said, clearing his throat, not entirely sure what he was meant to do with this information.

"No," Anna stared at the table. "I just never corrected my parents. Couldn't really. Too busy trying to scrape together a living to raise a baby."

The tone was accusing, as if he were meant to feel guilty. In truth he felt nothing. Numb. Detached, as they weren't standing in the same kitchen/lounge surrounded by police officers.

Ever the keen mind, Lestrade frowned, looking between them. "Wait…do you two know each other?" Lestrade asked slowly.

What did it say about the rest of the force that he was the most competent one? With a scathing glance in Lestrade's direction, Sherlock turned his attention back to Anna and the rather baffling set of facts in front of him.

He couldn't make it add up. "Why…" he drew his brows together with frustration. "Why would you have kept it?" he asked.

It made no logical sense.

Anna glared at him and then looked away. "You'll need a social worker," she said looking at Lestrade and ignoring the question to Sherlock's iritation. "My son is on his way home from school, you have about ten minutes."

"His father's not an option?" Lestrade asked with a sigh, digging into his pocket for the phone.

Father. That was a troubling word.

As if sensing his thoughts, Anna looked up at Sherlock squarely, her faze almost challenging. "No," she said firmly.

Social worker. Right. That would be best.

* * *

What did one usually expect from ten year old children? Tears? Tantrums? Snot?

Sentiment?

There was a horrible image of some clingy child, face wet with emotion and think with the need to be indulged. He so rarely had anything to do with children; most adults kept their offspring away from him, thus showing there was some intelligence in the world.

But when…when his…when the boy had returned home from school and had been led in by Donovan, he simply stared at Anna with eyes that looked huge for his pale face.

"No fools?" the boy asked with a sigh as he clenched his jaw.

Anna smiled sadly. "No sweetheart. No fools today.

The boy went to her as if magnetised. Curiously, Lestrade averted his eyes as the boy pressed a long hug to Anna and she wrapped her arms around him, almost engulfing the child.

A glance around the room showed that most were doing that. A futile attempt to give the pair privacy or where they feeling guilty about separating mother and son?

Likely both, Sherlock decided, his eyes flicking over the boy unbidden.

The boy was short, even for his age. No-one in his family was short. Maybe he'd have a growth spurt.

It was a natural curiosity Sherlock decided. Of course it was; a biological imperative to inspect the outcome of one's genes. To decide if the act of procreation had been a success or failure.

Feeling marginally more comfortable with his investigation now, Sherlock studied the boy from his position against the wall.

New shoes. Likely procured free of charge by a con given the expense of them. The boy's reaction indicated that not only was he aware of Anna's lifestyle but that he was immersed in it. There may be a budding pickpocket and liar in front of him.

That would be interesting.

Small but sturdy. Liked but not overly popular. Average? But maybe purposefully so, in order to avoid attracting attention.

"Social Services will meet us at the office," Lestrade sounded annoyed. "Bloody budget cuts," he muttered under his breath. "Donovan, you keep an eye on Miss Watson here and I'll be along as soon as I've sorted out the kid's custody arrangement."

Anna closed her eyes and gripped the boy by the shoulders, "You be good," she said softly, her eyes bright. "In every way, you be good."

The boy nodded, his shoulders indicating his sadness as they hunched and his head bowed. Anna drew in a deep breath and walked over to Donovan, giving him a long look as she passed.

"Come on kiddo," Lestrade held out his hand. "You know anyone that I could call to look after you?"

The boy eyed Lestrade warily. "Probably shouldn't give you their names," he said after a moment's thought.

Lestrade blinked then grinned, "Fair enough." He looked up at Sherlock as the boy passed in front of him. "Uh…case solved right?" he said, seeming confused by Sherlock's presence.

The boy looked between them with only the vaguest amount of interest on his face before he looked through the door again, clearly hoping for another glimpse of his mother.

"You need additional evidence," he heard himself say. "I'll stay and look."

The boy threw him a filthy glance as they left, the house turning quiet in minutes.

He still needed more data.

* * *

John.

The name was too short, too quick for him to roll it around in his head properly. John.

The first thing he did was find their documents. A yank through the shoe box under a loose floorboard in Anna's closet provided him with John's birth certificate.

And there was his bloody name, clear as day with Anna's in the applicable box.

John Hamish Watson.

He'd called a goldfish Hamish once. Had she remembered that or was it just coincidence?

More information needed.

Baby photos provided no help whatsoever. John had been small and round, like most babies were. The shots were done with a cheap camera, poor lighting and proficiency. Likely Anna had taken them herself.

School reports. Useless. All filled in with a tick list that told him nothing, completed with a generic comment that probably fit a third of the children in the class.

A letter.

It was messy, hastily written and contained some atrocious spelling.

_Dear Mum,_

_We built stick huts today. Mark Elliot knocked ours down half way through because he was jelous of ours. We had to finish it quick because at the end they poored water over it to see how water tight the hut was. We got soaked._

_But Mark lost his wallet afterwards and Lily who got the wettest found a tenner on the floor so it all worked out fine. _

_Love you and tell Uncle jasper were making vases tomorrow. Rekon he could sell mine for me?_

_John._

Thief and a wannabe Robin Hood.

Sherlock traced the words with his thumb, trying to picture the scenario in his head. Jasper had to be Jasper Truman; a forger who most people with a slightly grey link knew.

John was ten years old. Young enough for a normal family to take him in, raise him properly. Ensure he didn't have to lie about such things.

But a normal family would frown at theft, at the attempts to redistribute wealth and joke about conning people into paying a fortune for worthless tat.

He still needed much more data.

But he pocketed the birth certificate and the letter.

John's room held a little more detail. Simple and uncluttered, a few toys scattered around.

His book shelf showed adventure books, and the DVD's were all typical boy films about heroes and saving the day. His trainers were well used and there were various sporting kits in his wardrobe.

Downstairs, in the main room, was a picture of John in a frame. A candid shot of him looking up at something curiously, tilting his head in question.

It was the first hint of himself that Sherlock had seen in the boy.

He wasn't sure that was a good thing.

* * *

"Anna didn't have an abortion," Sherlock announced to Mycroft as he walked into his office.

The first emotion that played across Mycroft's face was bafflement, then thoughtfulness, then recognition, followed by shock.

Well, at least he wasn't the only reacting strangely today.

Sherlock flopped into the seat opposite Mycroft's desk still not entirely sure how this had happened or how he was meant to react to it.

"Good grief," Mycroft swallowed as he put down the document he'd been reading.

"I had her arrested three hours ago," Sherlock added rubbing at his forehead. "In retrospect not the finest plan."

Mycroft showed none of the inane disapproval most would have had. "Do you need me to-"

"No, my methods are irrefutable. She's guilty of murder. God knows why, it's a huge, uncharacteristic step away from her usual crimes." Sherlock lifted his feet onto Mycroft's desk and leaned his head back over the edge of the chair. That was interesting as well, what would have prompted the change of pattern? Blackmail? Money? Revenge? It has been premeditated, clever (relatively)…

"Feet," Mycroft muttered. Sherlock stared at him blankly before spotting the glare at his own feet on Mycroft's desk and papers.

"Thinking," Sherlock dismissed.

The disapproving look never failed to make Sherlock smile inwardly. "So there is a child?" Mycroft asked slowly.

"A boy. John."

"John?" Mycroft seemed to find the name equally distasteful. "Hardly fitting with family tradition," he decided with a frown.

Family…oh no. His parents did not need to be informed about this. Sherlock lifted his head and fired a warning glare at Mycroft. "I am merely processing the knowledge. I have no intention of…I have no intentions."

"Then what is in your pocket?" came the snide reply.

"Data."

* * *

The boy was asleep in Lestrade's chair, covered with a suit jacket.

It was curiosity that made Sherlock squat down, keeping a desk between them as he studied the boy's face. It was round and still filled with puppy fat that gave him a sweet appearance-

Not sweet, just much younger than his years.

Not sweet.

"He's a child, not a toy," Lestrade muttered from the doorway. "Come here before you wake him up."

"Where are social services?" Sherlock asked quietly, standing and walking over, unwilling to risk the boy opening his eyes.

"Delayed. He isn't a priority at the moment and until they find a space for him there's nowhere to put the kid." Lestrade closed the door. "Poor thing."

"There will be a family to take him?"

Lestrade looked almost amused, "God no. They'll take him to a children's home, then the search for a foster home will start." He looked back at the door, "Kid that age, with that kind of background, chances are he'll bounce around for years. Shame, seems like a good kid despite everything."

Sherlock said nothing.

"So did you get anything else?" Lestrade asked, shaking himself.

"Call me when social services finally deign to make an appearance," Sherlock said standing. "I have other matters to attend to."

* * *

Sherlock managed to head the woman off before Lestrade spotted her.

"Can I help you?" she asked, looking tired but firm.

"Will John be bounced around?" Sherlock asked, disliking the term, as if the child was a football. "Lestrade said it was an option."

"I'm sorry, I really can't discuss the matter," she side-stepped him.

Sherlock glared after her and followed. "You think that will be the case," he said, ignoring the curious glances he was receiving. "Don't you?"

"Sherlock," Lestrade looked frankly baffled, "Back off! What the hell is wrong with you today?"

"I need to know-"

"It is confidential," the social worker said with some bite.

The birth certificate burned by his side as he whirled and walked out of the office, baffled by his continued interest in this.

Why did he need to know? Mycroft could track the child if he so wanted. Idle speculation about what might happen to a child was a complete waste of time. He would either be placed or he wouldn't be, he would either settled to a new life or he wouldn't. Worrying about it would hardly make a difference.

* * *

Three cigarettes later, the social worker walked out of the building, John trailing after her with obvious reluctance. Following them Lestrade scowled at the sight of Sherlock, glaring at him pointedly as Sherlock leaned against the stair rails in a clear message to back off.

Ignoring the look, Sherlock stubbed out the cigarette. "I need to talk to him," Sherlock declared, standing away from the wall. "Five minutes."

The social worker looked ready to argue but Lestrade nodded and tilted his head at John who, after a look between all three of the adults, stepped forward.

Sherlock turned, leading John a little away from the others. When he was sure they were out of earshot, he looked down at the boy, not entirely sure why he wanted to talk to him. But the child was staring at him with an expectant expression.

"What do you require?" he asked, surprising himself with the question. "For day to day living?"

John furrowed his brow, "Uh…food?" he asked looking unsure as to what he was being asked. "Air? Sleep?"

_Idiot boy._

"Are you capable of making your own food?" Sherlock clarified, a half formed possible idea starting to threaten.

"Yes," John pulled a face.

"Of putting yourself to bed?"

John gave him a strange look, one that seemed utterly lost suddenly. "Yes."

"And you'd survive being left on your own for hours? I assume the presence of a television helps with such things."

"I guess."

"And…how emotional are you? Is this," Sherlock gestured to John, "Typical?"

John pulled a face, "Uh…"

"You don't have a need for hugs and bed time stories or discussions about feelings?"

"No," John sounded scornful. "I'm not a baby."

Sherlock turned to look at the car John was soon to be driven off in.

That was an uncomfortable idea.

"You can make your own way to and from school?"

John shrugged, "Guess it depends where I'm going," he said, swallowing and looking a little nervous about it.

What else should he ask? What else did he need to know?

Know for what? Sherlock suddenly frowned at the direction his thoughts had been spiraling to.

What was he thinking?

But the boy was about to be driven away-

"Excuse me?" The social worker called. "We need to be making a move. I'm sure your questions can wait for another day."

Excellent. Sudden relief bloomed.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded as she walked over and Lestrade watched with a wary eye. "Yes, where will he be going?"

That gave him time to think.

A day to gather his thoughts and remember that his ridiculous, unspoken idea was foolish.

Once he interviewed the boy again.

* * *

**27th September 2005**

There was a saying; out of sight, out of mind that Sherlock usually scorned. Now he understood it. Without the boy there, in front of him, life settled back to normal and the curious urge was easier to ignore and rationalise away. One day turned into three which, after a sudden case called, became two weeks.

Then that blasted car turned up again.

"It's Mummy's birthday in a month," Mycroft said as Sherlock settled into the back seat. "Am I to presume we won't be informing her about John?"

Sherlock stared out of the window, watching the rain drivel down the glass, distorting the view of London's streets and blurring the street lights.

"No."

"May I enquire why?" Mycroft asked after a pause.

Sherlock stroked at the letter and certificate still in his coat pocket with the edge of his thumb. "Do be serious Mycroft. The only person less suited to parenthood than I am is you."

"Then I suggest you return that-" Mycroft poked his umbrella in the direction of Sherlock's pocket, "-to the proper authorities and sign away any paternal rights. Once and for all."

That was sensible, rational, sensible and predictable in the way that most of Mycroft's ideas were.

Yet, for some strange reason, his thumb tightened on the paper as he nodded.

* * *

**28th September 2005**

The home was a rather innocuous looking building that looked run down and tired. The gate squeaked and there seemed to be a general lack of care with the appearance.

Mrs Fisher, who he'd spoken to on the phone under the pretext of being a friend of Anna's, nodded at him as she opened the door. Inside was clean but messy which he assumed was typical of a house filled with children.

"John will be pleased to see you," Mrs Fisher said as she led him through the kitchen. "They've all just come back from school."

They were outside. He could see glimpses of blue uniform and grey trousers, hear the children calling to each other. Loudly.

"He hasn't been placed yet?" Sherlock questioned, relatively sure of the answer given how eager she was being with him.

"No." Mrs Fisher sighed, "We have to vet very carefully; you must understand that with his background should there be a theft or a problem John may be the first most people would blame. Human nature," she said sadly. "And he's a solemn young boy, not that affectionate or quick to trust."

It was impossible to spot John through the bushes.

"It will be easier once his mother's trial has finished. And of course," she shook herself. "You said you were a friend of Miss Watson's?"

"Yes."

"Do you happen to know-"

"Yes." Sherlock turned to her and slipped his hand in his pocket, "I am intimately acquainted with his father."

Her eyes widened and then looked down at the birth certificate.

The letter, he did not offer.

"Mr Holmes…" Mrs Fisher looked hopeful, "Are you here to-"

"No." Sherlock concentrated on putting the certificate on the table. "No. I am not…suitable."

She reached out and tapped her finger on the creased paper, looking thoughtful. "Does he know?"

"No. He and I have only met once. I helped the police track down and arrest his mother. It was only when he…when I saw the photographs that I realised…" Sherlock shook his head, annoyed at his inability to finish his sentences.

Mrs Fisher folded it up suddenly. "Talk to him."

_No._

Sherlock glanced at the window. "He's busy," he excused.

"You should be certain," the tenacious woman handed him back the certificate. "Once you sign any papers you cannot go back."

Irritated, Sherlock drummed his fingers against the counter, "I didn't make it home for three days last week. I barely remember to feed myself and I find sleep dull. I have no problem with leaving without notice and I spend my days tracking suspects for the police and clients. I have been shot at more times then I care to count, successfully stabbed twice and scraped with a bullet once. Half of Scotland Yard think I'm a psychopath rather than a functioning sociopath. Tell me how that is an acceptable situation for a child."

Mrs Fisher nodded slowly and Sherlock took a deep breath, the win an unsatisfactory burn in his chest.

"John is the victim of continuous playground bullying; his mother's trial is in the papers and these children do not have an easy time of it as it is. He won't talk to anyone, won't trust anyone and will lie at the drop of a hat to avoid bringing attention to himself. He has tried to run away twice and, though this isn't official Mr Holmes, we were exceedingly lucky to find him the second time. His school work has slipped and currently he is sporting a rather interesting purple bruise that he got from 'tripping on the stairs'."

That…that wasn't meant to be the case. Sherlock felt himself flounder momentarily. "He's adjusting," he said quietly.

"Yes." Mrs Fisher agreed. "But I have two children who are here because their parents were abusive towards each other, one whose guardians were extremely negligent, a victim of sexual abuse, two children who have been 'returned' despite our efforts and we are due to have a third one back tomorrow. Tell me, there are three adults here, do you honestly believe John will get the attention he deserves?"

"You seem competent," Sherlock muttered.

"I am also only one person."

"I…" Sherlock shook his head, "I am not a suitable candidate."

"Who is?" Mrs Fisher sighed. "Just…talk to him. If you are so sure then it won't change much."

Sherlock hovered, still unsure, "I…"

The matter was taken out of his control when the back door opened.

John looked miserable. He hadn't looked so despondent the night his mother had been arrested. The bruise on his cheek was vivid and turning from purple to an ugly yellow-green. His shoulders were tense and wary as if readying himself for some assault.

A shiver of something uncomfortable ran down Sherlock's spine. The boy that had been so stoic, so resiliently brave the night Anna had been arrested now looked like he'd lost something vital.

Blue-hazel eyes glanced at him and there was a flare of recognition and then a suspicious glance at Mrs Fisher. If possible, John's stance curled even further inwards.

"Were you after something, John?"

There was a minute flicker to the fridge as the boy shook his head in a sullen fashion. Then his eyes fixed on the door, narrowing as if working out the chance of escape.

"Could you-" Sherlock looked at Mrs Fisher and then at the door.

She hesitated and then nodded, "John, I'll be right outside if you need me. I'll hear if you call."

Then she was gone.

"Three against one hardly seems fair," Sherlock said, keeping carefully against the counter. And it had been, he thought with a frown. The marks on his wrist, the strains on his blazer and tie, the fact that he'd been forced to absorb the blow and not turn his head from it.

"I'm not helping you," John said scuffing his shoe against the floor. "She shouldn't be in prison."

Did he know something or was it simply a boy's desperation to believe the best about his mother?

"And you can't ask me anything," John added, chin firming slightly. "There are laws."

Then the wide eyes darted down to Sherlock's hands and there was a flutter in his throat as John swallowed. Sherlock followed John's gaze and stared at his own hands.

He'd been hit.

By an adult.

Not lately, but it had been recent enough that John was hyper aware of the possibility. Anna wouldn't have allowed-

The murder had been odd. Uncharacteristic of her and very…business like. She'd admitted to the fact that she had been paid to do it, that she had planned it all out but there was something…

There was a mystery here.

It would explain the boy's skittishness. Days and then weeks without his mother had probably left him feeling especially vulnerable to such an attack again.

Someone had threatened John.

"The man who hit you," Sherlock said slowly, "What did he look like?"

"No-one hit me," one of John's eyes narrowed fractionally. A very well hidden tell; Anna had obviously trained the boy in lying.

"Mm," Sherlock let his disbelief bleed into his voice, "Clearly."

There was more here…

"Someone's explained…" Sherlock sucked in a breath, "You've see him again. Since Anna was imprisoned."

"Whatever," John looked at the door fiercely.

"That is far too dull a response from you," Sherlock snapped. "Try again."

John's jaw gaped fractionally and he seemed completely flummoxed by the idea that he was getting told off for his use of words rather than his rudeness. So confused in fact, that he just screwed up his nose and looked away, his mind clearly racing and trying to figure out his next move.

It was fascinating, watching the shifting expressions. Anger and a sullen glare passed and were replaced with a slight spark of something.

"Why? Are you actually a lawyer or do you just dress like one?"

Sherlock stared at the boy and then felt a terrible, awful urge to nod in approval and yet simultaneously slam into the chair in a sulk. "That…" he said pointing, "Is highly offensive."

A genuinely amused grin flashed, rare as mercury and Sherlock's hand clenched around the certificate protectively. The smile vanished quickly from his face, replaced with a rather forlorn expression as John worried at his lip.

"You see things?" he asked hesitantly, "You spot things that people can't?"

"I deduce," Sherlock corrected.

There was a flicker of…of something. Sherlock wasn't sure what it was but there was some reaction to the word. "Do you…do you take private cases?" John asked, edging slightly closer.

Vaguely amused at the idea that a ten year old was attempting to hire him to solve a case he was already interested in, Sherlock nodded, "Sometimes."

John clicked his jaw, clearly thinking and his eyes fixed on Sherlock's coat, then shoes, then watch. "You're expensive aren't you?" he asked, shoulders dropping again.

"Only when the cases are boring."

John nodded and Sherlock waited for the question. But John just glanced at the fridge one last time for whatever snack or juice it was that he had originally come in for and then darted back to the door.

"You aren't going to ask?" Sherlock queried, something panicking as John reached for the rusted handle.

John glanced back, an odd sad smile lingering on his lips.

"No," he shifted as if unsure. "I'm not that interesting or that important."

Then he vanished out into the garden again.

_Yes_, Sherlock thought, staring at the door his son had just gone through. _You are._

* * *

Later, when he stumbled home dazed, he smoothed the certificate out on the table and stared at it as if an answer would suddenly appear in the creases.

* * *

**30th September 2005**

"Who threatened him?"

Anna glared at him and then over at the guards. "Fuck off," she suggested, folding her arms defiantly and leaning back in the chair.

Sherlock turned and looked around the room and then back and caught her glance, then looked at his tapping fingers pointedly.

"What was the _amount_?" Sherlock asked, trying to stress the last word slightly.

"Twenty thousand," Anna replied, as she had done in court, her tone bored and childishly petulant.

Her finger tapped four times.

There were seven guards. Four were being paid. Either Anna was extraordinarily paranoid or she had fallen foul of some very powerful people.

"The child," he said, his tone taking on an air of boredom. "You seemed dismissive of the idea to track down any other potential guardians."

"You don't need my permission," Anna said carefully. "If you're _dedicated_ to searching."

Sherlock looked away.

"There are no suitable options," Anna sounded as if she were holding a leash to her temper, "My parents want nothing to do with their bastard grandson, my brother is an alcoholic and the father is a spoiled, selfish child."

Snarling, Sherlock leaned forward, "And his mother watched him get slapped around because she was too out of her depth."

Anna flinched and then leveled her chin at him, "I jumped ship," she smiled grimly, "I got tired of holding us both above water when no-one came to help."

Sherlock sat back, rubbing a hand over his eyes, his lack of sleep threatening to fog his mind. "Someone has had words with the boy," Sherlock said after a moment, dropping his hand from his head.

Anna's mouth twitched and she suddenly looked much sharper than before. "Have they?" she asked, her voice far too disinterested to be believed.

Sherlock rapped his fingers on the arm of the chair, lost in thought.

"Leave it alone," Anna said, swallowing. "Just leave it alone. You'll only make it worse."

* * *

**2nd October 2005**

Two days he received a text.

_Get a taxi to St Bart's. Now. MH_

_What happened? SH_

_It appears someone felt the need to exchange more than just words with the boy this time. MH_

Sherlock stared at the screen and felt a sudden urge to hurl the phone out the window.

Enough.

* * *

**3rd October 2005**

It was child's play to sneak into John's exam room.

"You're a doctor today?" the boy asked sleepily, staring down at the arm currently bandaged as he curled up on the exam table. He looked exhausted but seemed reluctant to relax.

He looked so small, so vulnerable.

Scared.

His wrist had been broken.

Anger was an emotion Sherlock was well acquainted with. The frustrated version when an experiment failed or when Anderson opened his mouth, the stubborn kind when Mycroft opened a car door or tapped his umbrella on the floor. A childish anger when things didn't go his way and a hurt anger when people didn't want to listen to him.

Never this. This rearing fury that made him sure he could shatter walls and kill whoever was responsible with his bare hands. How dare someone touch his-

Sherlock sunk into the chair and put his head in his hands.

His son.

As soon as he allowed the thought and the feeling, it flooded him, drowning him in it. His brave, stubborn, willful son who was so good at blending in that even Sherlock occasionally almost missed those flashes of sheer astounding resilience.

"It's okay," John's voice, so loud in the silence made Sherlock look over. "I…it's fine," the boy stared stubbornly at the bed sheets.

"What is?" Sherlock asked, his voice sounding oddly raw.

"That…that you don't want me."

The statement made Sherlock close his eyes, rewinding back to their last meeting.

"Deduce," he sighed, leaning back. "Your mother told you about me. That I used that word to describe my methods."

John nodded, still not looking up.

John knew and he had simply batted an eyelid and accepted it.

Clever, clever boy.

"I don't want to want you," Sherlock said eventually and watched John's brow furrow at the statement.

"If you go away they'll stop thinking that I'm saying things to you," John flexed his hand and winced. "I can take care of myself," he declared suddenly, glaring up at Sherlock.

How many times had he said that to Mycroft, how many times had he glared at the world, at anyone reaching out to him because he wasn't sure what it meant or how to respond.

He didn't want that for John.

Ever.

"I'm sure you can," he lied.

His son caught the lie immediately. "Go away," John snapped, moving and hissing as the movement jostled his wrist. "Piss off."

"If you lie to me, I'll lie to you."

"You do lie to me," John sulked, "Every time we've talked you've lied. My Mum might be…" John broke off, eyes filling a little, "But she never lied to me."

Sherlock nodded and the pulled the chair closer, John went stiff, eyeing him up as if Sherlock might suddenly attack.

"Then the facts," Sherlock said, feeling a little more comfortable with such territory, "are as follows. I am not a paternal person, I will not nag you to do your homework but I will be disappointed and likely belittle you should your school work be less than average. I will not attend plays and…" Sherlock floundered, "Whatever else it is that children do to perform to adults. I will not be at your beck and call. My work is important and it is unpredictable. You may not see me for days on end, and I will certainly not cook you three square meals a day. I will not help you with romantic issues and social conventions are not my area."

John raised an eyebrow at that.

"I will not parent you," Sherlock finished. "But…if those conditions are acceptable…"

John stared at him, clearly baffled.

"You are…" Sherlock looked up at the ceiling and then at John, "You are important. You are interesting and you are useful. And I will not change my mind about any of those qualities."

John slowly met his eyes, seemingly stunned and desperately searching Sherlock's for something.

"You do know social services will probably murder you for saying half of that?" John asked, sitting back, seemingly turning over whatever it was he had seen in Sherlock.

"I suggest you phrase that as a straight answer," Sherlock huffed.

"Phrase it as a straight question then," John snapped back.

Touché. Sherlock nodded, trying not to smile. "Would you like to…be my flat mate?"

John sniggered and then grinned, "Okay." Then the grin faltered, "But you still have to pass-"

"Your Uncle practically runs the government and I am not an idiot," Sherlock replied, pulling out his phone.

"You have…you have a family?" John asked, sounding stunned by the idea.

"Did you assume I spawned from mid-air?" Sherlock asked texting. "Mycroft will probably introduce himself soon; he can never resist sticking his fat nose into everything. I believe we can avoid my parents for a while."

"Do…" John licked his lips looking worried, "Do they hate me too?"

Sherlock paused and looked up. "No. My mother simply talks. Incessantly. They both lecture continuously and with great fervor." He eyed John thoughtfully, "Though maybe if I offer you up to them they'll simply try again with the next generation and leave me in peace."

* * *

_Deal with social services. I am relieving you of listening to the endless nagging to produce a grandchild. You owe me. SH_

* * *

That night, Sherlock watched John sleep all night.

For data, and certainly not for any sentimental reason.

At all...


	2. Truancy

**Truancy**

Summary: How hard can parenting really be? Even when one's son was raised by those with rather flexible ideas about following the law?

* * *

**18th**** October 2005**

"This is my flat," Sherlock announced, opening the door. John peered around the frame and then up at him, a nervous expression on his face that seemed to prevent him from walking through the door as Sherlock intended.

Though how the boy had missed the social cue Sherlock had no idea. What else did John think he was meant to do when faced with an open door?

The boy had promised he didn't need that much supervision.

With any luck he'd understand what to do eventually, Sherlock decided walking in. Instead, he stared at the coffee table, noting the erosion of the liquid on the teeth in the various glasses. He noted the time and drew a tooth out, placing it in a container and marking off the time-

"You are meant to enter the room, not stand gawping," Sherlock said, rocking back onto his heels and noticing John's wide-eyed stare where he was still lingering in the doorway.

John blinked at him and then stepped through, taking an inordinate amount of time to close the door. Sherlock continued to write, watching the boy take slow steps into the centre of the room, scratching idly at the cuff of the plaster cast on his arm.

Then felt a moment of odd fluttering when John's gaze fell upon the skull and his eyebrows merely rose. Sherlock had seen adults fly to the door at the sight and he smirked at the reaction.

"You didn't…kill anyone?" John asked, sounding as if he simply wanted confirmation, not as if he were about to have one of those annoying moral attacks.

Sherlock turned to look at it. "Not him," he said dismissively. It was cruel; he just wanted to see the reaction. John blinked and his mouth dropped slightly, then he shook himself and a flicker of annoyance passed over his face.

Impossible to tell the cause of that irritation. But whatever it was caused John to suddenly grow bolder and explore the room at his whim.

Sherlock smirked at his experiment. And he'd thought it would be hard to train up a child.

* * *

**24th**** October 2005**

Ten year olds were disobedient brats.

"I told you to go to school," Sherlock folded his arms.

"I fell asleep," John lied.

"You fell asleep?" Sherlock reached out a hand for the back of the television and felt it was warm. "Is it a requirement for your sleeping habits to have the television on?"

John clearly missed the move and just gaped up at him. "I wasn't watching television," he said with such hurt innocence that Sherlock might have been tempted to believe him if not for the fact he had the evidence in front of him and that tiny tell, the slight narrowing of the eyes that was blazingly obvious.

"Not good enough," Sherlock said leaning down. "You need to be far more convincing."

John's face changed instantly. The hurt, wounded expression fell away and he just glared at Sherlock furiously. "You can't make me go," he said clenching his jaw

Really?

"You don't want to make me make you," Sherlock promised.

John's eyes flickered and the jaw went even further up, willful and obstinate. It was enough to send Sherlock's mind roaring until John's throat bobbed as he swallowed.

The boy was afraid.

"I will march you into that school, into your class and sit you at a table," Sherlock said, "And I will insist you answer every single question posed to the class while I sit and watch."

John shot him a doubtful look, even as his shoulders dropped in relief. "Really? I thought you didn't want to go anywhere near my school."

He didn't.

"Granted," Sherlock stood. "I'd send a police escort."

John paled.

"Go to school," Sherlock said firmly. "I need the flat."

John stared at him, as if searching for something and then, looking mollified, he turned, disappearing into his room to change for school.

There. First crisis averted.

* * *

**26th**** October 2005**

Two days later the next crisis occurred.

Mycroft.

Sherlock walked in and paused, staring at John who was staring at Mycroft who was staring back at John.

It was like watching a cat weigh up a mouse.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, glaring at his brother.

"I came to inspect your offspring as you seem to have no interest in bringing him round."

Inspect what? Mycroft only liked things that he saw some use in. And Mycroft was not allowed to use John in any way.

"And is there any further information?" Mycroft asked, pointing the umbrella at John's plastered arm as he circled the boy.

No. John had answered most of his questions but it had become painfully obvious rather quickly that, resilient though his son was, his impressions had been tempered by fear the two most recent times and he had been half asleep and then half terrified when his mother had been present. Furthermore Sherlock was convinced that the last one had been a lackey and was relatively sure that had been the case before hand. Not to mention that whoever had linked Anna and the client up had vanished as if they had never existed. There had been no further threats to John since he had been claimed as Sherlock's son and Anna, the only possible person who could shed some light on the situation, still refused to help.

"He seems more Watson then Holmes," Mycroft declared, coming to a stop in front of John again.

Thankfully.

"Think you can do better?" Sherlock asked bristling at the derisive expression on Mycroft's face.

"Than two sixteen year olds, a stolen bottle of scotch and an ancient condom? However would I compete with such grand beginnings?"

Before Mycroft had finished, John's shoulders had stiffened and he was leaning away from Mycroft. Sherlock found himself stepping forward without conscious thought, his hand reaching for John's shoulder.

"No," Sherlock said firmly. There were a lot of things he expected John to cope with; a lot of things John simply had to cope with. A sudden introduction to Mycroft's tongue lashing was not one of them.

But Mycroft's disappointment was almost tangible and John couldn't have missed it. Hadn't, if the uncomfortable shifting under his hand was any indication.

"Apologies," Mycroft said in an overly formal tone, even as his gaze darted all over John as if searching for something.

John pushed back slightly into Sherlock.

"He's quiet," Mycroft observed at the door.

"Good," Sherlock muttered. "I despise loud children."

"Passive."

Sherlock snorted, thinking of the television argument. "Hardly."

"Ordinary."

"You need glasses," Sherlock said after a pause.

* * *

**29th**** October 2005**

The third crisis didn't appear to be one at all.

After all, how was Sherlock meant to think of these things?

"I need cigarettes," he said to John as he spread the crime scene photographs out over the table.

"Cigarettes?" John said doubtfully.

"Yes. You bought milk yesterday. I need cigarettes."

Twenty minutes later a packet was tossed onto the table.

People who had children were clearly the most intelligent people in the world. It was like having a delivery company that couldn't say no.

* * *

**6th**** November 2005**

As it turned out, all three were linked into one big one that he really should have seen halfway through the first crisis.

"Mr Holmes?" a frazzled sounding woman asked.

"Busy. Leave a message. Text," Sherlock ordered as he rested his chin on his folded arms and stared at the snail.

"My name is Philippa Lawrence. I'm calling from Oaklands School."

"Why?"

There was a very long pause. "I'm given to understand that you're John Watson's father?"

Oh.

"Yes," he sighed. "No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't wish to enter into whatever social ritual you are trying to conscript me into."

"That's not-"

"Or baking. I do not bake. I do not use the cooker."

"I-"

"Or engage in conversation with other children."

"Mr Holmes, is John coming back to school?"

Back? Sherlock sat up straight, suddenly alert.

"Back?" he snapped. "What do you mean back?"

"John hasn't been at school for almost a week."

That little git.

* * *

"I need your CCTV," Sherlock announced, walking into Mycroft's office.

"I'm using it," Mycroft said, as if Sherlock was asking to borrow his Latin books before his test. Again.

"I need to find your nephew."

Mycroft regarded him steadily over the desk. "Try a sweet shop."

"He isn't you," Sherlock snapped. "I looked."

Sort of. It had become very apparent very quickly that he had no idea what sort of thing would attract John. It was infuriating that he could deduce the fact that Donovan and Anderson would be shagging within the month, that Mycroft's assistant had recently bought a budgie (who knew why, the woman was a mystery) and that Mycroft himself had recently ended a relationship with an assistant who worked for a rival governmental official.

John…who knew what children liked? They had the attention span of a gnat.

Mycroft, after a moment, sighed and waved his hand.

* * *

His son froze, eyes widening in horror when Sherlock folded his arms and glared down at him.

John had been spotted on other days going to view the prison where his mother was incarcerated (from a distance). When he wasn't doing that, John had decided to turn part tourist.

"You cannot buy cigarettes," Sherlock said, feeling he needed to establish that he was now aware of that fact.

John's forehead creased. "I know," he said, looking utterly confused.

"And you didn't pay to get in here," Sherlock added.

John glared at him and then around the room that had been turned into a maze that the masses were herded through when the place was busy. "Bet you didn't pay either," John huffed eventually. "Why are you even here?" he asked. "People don't track down their 'flat mates'."

"You," Sherlock pointed, "Are testing me."

A challenge flared in John's eyes. "Am I?"

"Yes. It's exceedingly dull. Textbook case," Sherlock added. "You are attempting to establish boundaries and my interest in you."

John looked down at the floor.

What was it about the boy that made Sherlock feel so…unsure? The second he saw the defensive tilt to the shoulders and the slight curl of John's back as if the boy were trying to hide himself from pain it made Sherlock feel…

Odd.

Very odd.

And he wasn't wearing a coat. Just his t-shirt; the school jumper was stuffed into his school bag to make him less distinctive. It was such a simple trick that allowed him to blend in with the school groups and yet drift away just as easily.

Sherlock looked around at the armour collection and then down at John.

"How did you get in?" he asked.

"Told the guard I'd snuck off for some chips," John peered up at him. "I offered to share them if he let me in without telling my teacher. I heard the name of one of the schools as they went in."

Sherlock could see it; the sudden grin, the mischievous eyes and quick humour. It was a difficult combination to resist. "Did you pay for the chips?"

John pulled a face, "I gave the man money for it."

There.

"You haven't been lying to me," Sherlock bent towards the child. "You know I can spot it. You've been telling me half-truths."

Dark blue eyes searched his. "Picked it," John said eventually. "There was a dick on the tube."

Ah, the morality of youth.

"No pickpocketing," Sherlock waved a finger at John.

"You pickpocket the police," John glared.

"For a reason."

John raised an eyebrow. Possibly because last week Sherlock had returned with Lestrade's keys just to prove a point.

Living with a child you were trying to raise was annoying. It made Sherlock suddenly rethink the use of the old adage 'Do as I say and not as I do'.

"I mean it," Sherlock said firmly. "Cons are different – if people are that stupid in a battle of wits then they deserve what they get. But no pickpocketing. Or theft," he added quickly, in case Anna had added that skill to John's dubious education, which seemed likely given the cigarettes.

John stared at him, worrying at his lip as he processed the information, "But…" his nose bunched up, "How am I meant to get things?"

"The same way that most people do. Pay for them."

"With?"

"Shiny metal discs," Sherlock glared. "Or those pieces of paper that everyone seems so attached to. It's called currency."

Irritatingly, John still looked blank. "Do I have to get a job?"

"You're ten." Ten year olds didn't get jobs.

"Then how do I get the money to pay for things?" John asked, as if Sherlock were the one being painfully stupid. The genuine confusion in his voice stung.

"Ask," Sherlock folded his arms and glared at the armour in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the scrunched nose as John seemed to toy with the idea, as if it were new.

That odd shuddering in his stomach happened again, as if something were shifting. Awkward, he looked around.

He supposed John could have found a worse way to spend his time than roaming around the Tower of London.

"Have you been here before?" he asked, suddenly interested in his son's choice of activity.

John shook his head. "We were meant to," he said. "But Mum-" he broke off, as he always did when his mother was discussed. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure if it was because the matter upset him or if he was trying to protect her in some way.

He didn't have a case today, he had time.

"Carry on," he said waving a hand. "What's the most interesting thing in the room?"

Oddly the boy looked more worried at that, "Uh…" he looked around, gaze flickering around.

"What do you find most interesting," Sherlock asked, a little softer.

The shy smile made him almost smile back in response as John bit his lip and then turned, darting his way through the room, weaving in and out of the groups with ease. And, typical of a ten year old boy, his son stopped at the swords.

To his satisfaction it was because of an odd mark on the blade. John wanted to know why the mark was there and why they hadn't cleaned it. Sherlock managed to amuse himself for ten minutes discussing possibilities with John until the child nodded, clearly forming his own back story from the sword from what Sherlock said.

He didn't want to share it though; a hint of a nature that was either shy or simply reserved peeking through.

The white tower was a maze, forcing visitors to explore the whole thing rather than duck in and out. The levels were of varying interests and Sherlock let himself be led by John. To the child's credit he seemed to sense when Sherlock was utterly uninterested and would led them on.

And, of course they had to visit the torture equipment. The morbid fascination almost made Sherlock smile in glee as John peeked through the rails down onto the rack and stared up with some confusion at the Scavenger's Daughter.

"Why would that be torture?" he asked, leaning in close to Sherlock. "Isn't it just kneeling?"

"For days," Sherlock replied. "The victims were unable to move at all and their ribs compressed so they found it hard to breath. Psychologically it's detrimental, the victim would feel trapped, claustrophobic and the more they struggled the worse it would feel. The fact that they weren't utterly enclosed would fool them into believing escape was possible."

Next to him a woman stared at him in horror but John's eyes, and those of the two boys who had leaned in close, were wide with interest.

John stared up at it, head tilting as he tried to examine it and work it out in his head. Though the thought process was slower than Sherlock would have ideally liked, the fact that John was rearranging it in his mind to fully understand it was something he deeply approved of. Especially as the two other boys had already moved onto the next thing; it was like watching water spiders skate the surface of understanding.

His hand, unbidden, stroked John's hair back approvingly, and then he ducked, lifting John to the railing so he could see it easier and standing beside him, though the little monkey didn't need it. He had the balance of a cat even with his plastered arm, that was currently sporting various doodles.

Closer, John studied it and shuddered, obviously understanding now how it was used. "Is it a real one?" he asked.

"Unlikely," Sherlock studied the iron.

"They don't do that anymore do they?" There was a wobble of worry in John's voice.

"Why? Worried that's the penalty for truancy?"

Because the child was standing on the rails Sherlock's chin was almost level with the shoulders that suddenly fell with some emotion. With a distinctly miserable air, John turned; head bowed and sat on the top rail.

Out of the corner of his eye Sherlock could see a guide walking over, probably to complain that John was on the rails.

Just because other people's children were tediously dull did not mean his was. But it wasn't an argument he was likely to win so Sherlock lifted John up and off the rails, indicating he was to go forward with a tap of his hand on John's head.

The passed through the rest of the walk without comment until they were back outside. Sherlock weaved John down the cobbles and then up the steep stairs until they were on the walkway on the inner walls. They continued around until they reached a quiet section.

"Why are you reluctant to go to school?"

"I'll go tomorrow," John replied, peeking over the edge of the wall.

"That wasn't what I asked you," Sherlock said quietly.

Unsurprisingly, John remained stubbornly silent.

It was impossible. He'd say the boy had been in a physical altercation but he'd discovered within two days of this parenting business that children could pick up bruises bouncing on a mattress. It seemed to be their special skill to become riddled with yellow marks the size of a thumb.

His school polo shirt was un-ironed as was his trousers. But Sherlock did not iron and he was damned if he was paying for a dry cleaners to iron cheap polyester.

They needed a cleaner, or a housekeeper, or something to keep John looking far more cared for than he did.

That thought sat oddly with him.

But children, while cruel and quick to pick up on any slight, would not notice a few wrinkles. The broken arm undoubtedly made John stand out and the social worker had commented that-

That John was struggling at school because of his mother. But that wasn't it; John had gone to school when at the care home.

The only difference was Sherlock.

"You are unhappy with me?"

John's entire posture changed into someone waiting to be hurt. He seemed to shrink instantly as if making himself as small as possible.

"John?"

"I heard," John whispered, small fingers tracing the edge of the thick stone that made up the walls. "I heard you and him talking."

Him?

"I'm ordinary," John added sounding thoroughly dejected. "You won't want me around."

Bloody Mycroft!

"You heard my answer," Sherlock replied stiffly.

John had clearly said all he wanted to on the subject and seemed suddenly interested in seeing which would win between the wall and his plaster cast as he scrapped the two against each other.

Suddenly it made a little more sense. John's attempts to see if he could survive without help, testing his skills to provide for himself, all of it suggested that John believed one single thing.

"I am not going to abandon you at the side of the road like an unwanted puppy," Sherlock snapped, annoyed at the implication.

But he doubted his words would make little difference to a boy who had been left behind far too many times by his parents.

"What did I say to you," Sherlock said firmly, squatting down to be at John's eye-level. "Tell me what I said to you when I instigated this situation."

John blinked at him, mouthing a few of the words.

"At the hospital," Sherlock resisted the urge to huff at John's vocabulary. They would have to pick up a thesaurus on their way home, "What did I promise you?"

John utterly refused to meet his eyes.

"John?"

"I'm useful," John whispered.

Hearing the word back made Sherlock wince. "You are not a burden," he remedied carefully. "That was what I meant. I did not mean that you had to make yourself useful." He considered his words, "Though the fact that you can pick up food is highly useful."

John's expression became even more confused; he was giving the boy so many mixed signals it was ridiculous.

"What are your impressions of me?"

The baffled look again. Really, they were getting a dictionary and thesaurus and Sherlock was having a long discussion with the teacher.

Over the phone. By text.

"Tell me what you know about me?"

"You're really clever," John said slowly and with a hint of what sounded like pride, "and you have an important job catching bad guys."

How…touchingly childish.

"And?"

He could practically see John's thought process, trying to spin Sherlock's less acceptable habits.

"Rude?" he said to help John. "Abrasive? Arrogant? Impatient?"

John's lips twitched, but there was still some reluctance to agree. "You get easily bored," he said in a small voice.

"If I find myself bored by you that will be my failing not yours. It is my job to ensure you remain as interesting as possible." Sherlock stood, "Unfortunately for you that means school."

"You think school's boring."

"I think uneducated drop outs who spend their time acting like alley way cats to be more boring."

John stared up at him, "No you don't."

"No," Sherlock agreed feeling pleasantly surprised, "But you need to go. It's seven hours a day at most. There is time to do something else if you really want to."

There was still some reluctance. Sherlock wasn't naïve enough to assume John would change his mind with a few words but it was a relief to see he looked a little more…settled.

* * *

**7****th**** November 2005**

"Well?" Mycroft asked as Sherlock walked into his office the following day after walking John to school.

Well…to the bus. And had then phoned the office which had resulted in an odd conversation with the receptionist to ask her to check the boy walked into the classroom.

To his extreme pleasure she had been almost in tears when she'd phoned him back and confirmed John was in fact in the classroom. A few lies had ensured that he wouldn't have to ask Mycroft for another favour with social services.

"He lied and bribed his way into the Tower of London," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft blinked, looked up, raised an eyebrow and then went back to his work. "How proud you must be," he muttered waspishly.

Sherlock yanked the paper out of his hands. "I find myself in the unenviable position of quoting mother," he said. "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

"You're blaming me?" Mycroft's eyes lingered on the papers. His interest in the documents made Sherlock make a mental note to slip one into his pocket.

"Yes."

"How far did you get this morning? The bus stop?"

"Do not even pretend that you were manipulating me into being a better parent," Sherlock folded his arms, purposefully scrunching the paper. "It never worked when we were children and it does not work now."

"Mummy asked after you," Mycroft said angling his chin. "Perhaps it might be an idea to inform her that she is a grandmother?"

Just over a month of knowing about John and the idea of so much as talking to his parents was no more appealing than it had been then. "Soon."

"You could move in, have them help with-"

Sherlock glared and slowly started to tear the paper.

"You are a child raising a child," Mycroft snapped.

"That does not mean I will fail at it," Sherlock continued to tear, enjoying the pained look on Mycroft's face.

"Oh, it does."

Sherlock paused and locked gazes with his brother. Then deliberately tore what he could, scattering it as he turned and walked out.

"Going to prove me wrong or are you going to admit you need help?"

The fat Machiavellian arsehole. Hovering, Sherlock took a breath and turned back.

"Jealous?"

The barb hit and Mycroft faltered, just a little.

"Enjoy your lonely evenings Mycroft. I promised my son I'd explain my experiment tonight."

He hadn't.

But he would.


	3. Paradigm Shift

**Paradigm Shift**

Summary: Old issues arise when Sherlock's parents finally learn they have a grandson

* * *

**_1994_**

_"How could you be so stupid?"_

_"I used a condom." Sherlock's arms were folded in stubborn reluctance. "It was not my fault."_

_"She's pregnant Sherlock! Pregnant. Does that mean anything to you?"_

_Sherlock looked away, his chin set sullenly. "That Mr Wallington's condoms are never used frequently enough to be rotated in his wallet?"_

_"Mr Watson is insistent that she has an abortion," Bella said quietly._

_Lucian sat suddenly, trying to see something, any flicker of emotion in Sherlock. But their boy just stared at some point in the wall, his face an emotionless mask._

_Why couldn't it have been Mycroft? Aside from the fact he was older, Lucian at least knew his eldest would have done the right thing, instead of sulk like a child because he was in trouble._

_"Probably for the best," he said dully, despite the fact that some part of him ached at the words. It would have been their first grandchild, the first child born free of the shadow of Walter Holmes._

_A new start._

_Bella looked away but he could see the tear streaks on her face. Standing he went over to her and wrapped her into a hug._

_When he looked up Sherlock was gone and Mycroft, who had been standing by his brother, looked pale and hesitant._

_"It's decided," Lucian said, disliking the look on Mycroft's face, as if he were burdened by something. "It's done."_

_He had no idea how right he was._

* * *

**19th November ****2005**

Mrs Hudson was going to make John as fat as Mycroft.

She'd offered him the flat before but even at a reduced price he couldn't afford it easily enough to continue his life style. One circumstantial upside to having John was that Anna's 'rainy day' funds were being used as a version of child support.

Not to mention the fact that Mycroft, clearly suffering from a sudden case of finding a hint of a heart, had actually given him access to his trust fund. Finally.

It was another thing he could mention when facing his parents. Anything to divert their attention from him and John would be a welcome relief.

Of course it did mean packing up their things which was beyond dull. John at least still had a lot in storage so Sherlock had only himself to blame.

"He's a growing boy," Mrs Hudson said in a disturbingly fond voice for someone that had only known John for twenty minutes. Then she pushed another cookie towards John and Sherlock rolled his eyes in disapproval.

John seemed to think that was the best phrase ever and beamed at her in delight.

"But the intention is for him to grow up not sideways," Sherlock folded his arms.

"Not fat," John glared, pouting instantly.

"Yet."

"Don't listen to him," Mrs Hudson patted John on the head. "You eat as much as you want young man."

Oh, for the love of-

"In fact, you're setting a good example for your father. He's far too skinny."

John sniggered into his cookie and then immediately changed his expression to one of pure innocence when Sherlock glared.

"You'll feed him then?" Sherlock asked leaning back in the chair. "When I'm out?"

The look Mrs Hudson gave him almost made him smile. The woman wasn't fooled for a moment. "Yes," she said after a moment, "But I'm not doing breakfast. I'm not your personal cook."

"I can make cereal," John offered helpfully.

"Really?" Sherlock asked sarcastically, "You can pour milk?"

"More than you do," John muttered.

* * *

Lucian Holmes was not impressed with his youngest son.

Hadn't been for years.

He'd been a beautiful child, wonderful and inquisitive. Their mistake with Mycroft, their inability to see what had been happening with his father had shaken both him and Bella to the core. The manipulation, the subtlety, all of it had horrified them and it had taken years to tease Mycroft back to showing some form of trust and emotion. But Sherlock had always been indulged, neither of them wanting to risk losing Sherlock's natural curiosity and spirit of will.

Indulged…spoiled…at some point they had ruined him as much as his father had hurt Mycroft.

Lucian just wasn't entirely sure how. It seemed so unfair; by rights Sherlock should have been the child they were closest with, the child that had never feared them, never known to worry or wonder.

But they had done something wrong. Sherlock's greatest downfall was his attention span. Everything had to be quick, had to be fast and explored. He could never just take someone's word for it, had to leap headfirst and damn the consequences to anyone else. Mycroft was always slow to open up he was at least practical, sensible and had grown into a man that Lucian was deeply proud of.

Sherlock on the other hand…

Sex, drugs, clubs, police. It was like something out of a b-film. What was often more concerning was that his son never seemed to understand that he could cut deeply with his silver tongue, that he could hurt people with his quick mind, sharp eyes and careless ways. It was as if he had never stopped being six years old and realised the entire world did not revolve around Sherlock Holmes.

Bella cried every time they had a phone call that Sherlock had once again been admitted to a rehabilitation program via Mycroft's interference or was once again caught up in some crime solving idiocy and injured.

That was the problem with children. You could never completely stop caring, even when it was abundantly clear they had.

The first sign they had that something was wrong with Sherlock was the fact that Mycroft didn't call for two months. It was always a sign that Sherlock had managed to guilt his older brother into hiding something from them.

Which was why despite the fact that Sherlock hadn't visited in almost two years, Lucian wasn't that surprised to find him in the hallway.

Though, the fact that he didn't have a key made it somewhat infuriating.

"It's not been a leap year already has it?" Lucian asked folding his arms.

"I can't imagine why I avoid you," Sherlock snapped as he walked past and straight into the living room where Lucian had been sitting.

The way Bella's face lit up at the sight of him was painful. Sherlock, typically, remained distant and looked uncomfortable-

No. Lucian studied his son. He looked…nervous? Lucian couldn't even remember the last time Sherlock the expression had sat on his son's face.

It did not bode well.

"I have something to tell you, Mycroft has been nagging at me to do so."

That trick hadn't worked in years. Sherlock's foolish attempts to divert their attention to his brother had caused more than one argument when he was a teenager. The fact that Sherlock was even trying it made Bella reach out and grab Lucian's hand.

"Anna kept the child."

It was so completely unexpected that Lucian blinked and turned to Bella.

"Anna?" Bella asked hesitantly, a question in her voice.

"Anna Watson."

Anna Watson the girl-

Lucian's entire thought process stopped.

"She…" Bella stared up at Sherlock desperately. "She kept it?"

Sherlock's nose bunched up as it did when he was confused by something. "Yes…apologies for the dreadful news. I'm sure your social standing will withstand it this time around."

Dreadful news? Lucian clenched his fists. "Is she…How is she?"

It was hardly the question he wanted to ask, but he couldn't bring himself to-

"I sent her to prison," Sherlock cocked his head, "Unintentionally," he added, frowning and then dismissing whatever thought had popped into his head.

To prison?

Oh god what about the child…it would be ten years old by now. Alone, lost.

Was it all right?

Lucian waited, hoping for more, but Sherlock seemed to be eyeing them both warily, still more concerned with the telling off than taking responsibility and facing the consequences.

"You…" Lucian swallowed and closed his eyes. "How could you be so selfish?"

"What was the name?" Bella asked desperately, "We'll find it, take it in. You won't have to see it."

Sherlock looked utterly lost. "I…why?"

"It's our grandchild," Lucian stared at him. "Our flesh and blood, and while that may mean little to you, it means something to us. It always did."

"Funny. I seem to recall you agreeing with the Watson's disposal method," Sherlock snapped.

"Because you didn't care," Lucian stood, needing to work off some of the energy. "You were more annoyed that you'd stolen a faulty condom from one of our friends than the fact that Anna was having an abortion."

Sherlock stared him down. "This was a mistake," he said eventually. "Forget this."

"Please," Bella stood, tears forming, "Tell us anything, please-"

But Sherlock had already slammed out the house.

* * *

"I don't know why I bothered; it was a complete waste of time. Appearance," Sherlock screwed his face up at the word, "God forbid we have a potential social disaster on our hands. Child in care, what will Mr and Mrs Windsor say? Morons-"

"Are you talking to the skull?"

Sherlock paused and looked at the doorway where John, bundled in his winter coat, gloves, scarf and an unfamiliar hat stared at him.

"Helps me think," Sherlock walked away from the shelf. "You went to school today?"

"You know I did," John said sullenly. "The receptionist wanders into my class every morning."

Ah yes, he would miss Miss Monmouth's weak mind when John moved school. "Where did this come from?" he asked, plucking the hat off of John's head and studying it.

"It was cold," John defended. "Jimmy Bollen left it behind. It was just gonna sit in the cloakroom."

Practical. Sherlock flicked it on to the sofa.

"Are you still packing?" John almost whined.

He just wanted to get back to Mrs Hudson's kitchen and encourage her to give him his weight in sugar. "I have important things to do."

A rather pointed gaze slid to the skull and then back to Sherlock again. "Right," John said doubtfully.

* * *

Mycroft arrived an hour later looking tired.

"How could you not tell us?" Bella asked as soon as she saw him. "That poor child, it must be so scared-"

"That's a little extreme," Mycroft said after a pause.

"Anna has been imprisoned. Its whole life has been turned upside down," Bella shook her head, "God only knows who it will end up with."

Mycroft's gaze flickered between them and Lucian saw comprehension dawn. "Oh…Sherlock has custody."

Lucian sat before he fell down.

"Sherlock?" Bella asked, as if Mycroft has used an unfamiliar word.

"For almost two months now."

Two months? Lucian stared at him. "Willingly?" he asked. "Sherlock…

"Chose to take him on, yes." Mycroft sat down heavily.

"Was this on a spur of the moment-"

"Sherlock thought about it for weeks. Debated it or…" Mycroft frowned, "Whatever it is he does."

Lucian sat back, stunned.

"Him?" Bella asked breathlessly, "It's a boy?"

A boy? Lucian had a sudden image of Sherlock as a young child again.

"John," Mycroft nodded.

John? John Holmes…Lucian couldn't stop the disbelieving smile. It was actually real, not one of Sherlock's tricks or a vague dream. The boy, his grandson was substantial, tangible.

"What's he like?" Bella asked eagerly. "How is he? Where has he been?"

"I…" Mycroft faltered. "Blond," he said firmly, "Short, dark blue eyes. About," he gestured with his hand to indicate a height, "So high."

Not a carbon copy of Sherlock then. More like Bella's colouring, Lucian thought, glancing at his wife, who looked like she was about to burst into tears.

"And he's healthy? Well?"

Mycroft's eyes narrowed fractionally and he nodded.

Bella had never been able to see when Mycroft lied to her.

* * *

"Do you know how to cook?" John asked frankly as they sat at the Italian counter.

"Do you know how long it will take you to like Chinese?" Sherlock asked glaring at the dough in front of them. "Do I have to start spiking your food with five spice? Is that how I get you acclimatised to a bit of heat in your food?"

"You picked the one with chilies next to it," John jammed his elbows on the counter, eyes darting to the dessert counter. "It burned my tongue."

"One could only wish," Sherlock muttered. "Pick, quickly. I have things to do."

"Like talk to the skull again?" John asked, nose almost against the glass. Sherlock pulled him back by his collar slightly. There was no way he was risking the boy catching something and getting sick before they moved in and had Mrs Hudson downstairs for such things.

"What's Bree?" John asked head moving as he read all the labels.

"Cheese."

"Like Babybell?"

Sherlock had no idea what that was. "Pick something else," he said firmly. "I am not traipsing around London at this hour to indulge you."

"Can I help?" the girl behind the counter asked.

"Can I have the chicken calezzoni?" John asked.

"Of course you can," the girl looked pleasantly surprised. "And what does your Dad want?"

"Quick service," Sherlock hissed.

To his never ending amusement, John flushed and glared up at him as the girl started moving with a lot more speed. "You're so embarrassing," John hissed between his teeth.

"And this is without effort," Sherlock smiled down at him. "Imagine what it's like when I try?"

John looked pained.

"Indeed. So you are going to help me pack tonight?"

A devilish grin appeared on John's face. "Can I have one of those?" he asked nodding his head at a chocolate lump of cake, icing and who knew what else. "I might complain less."

Worth it.

* * *

Lucian told his wife he needed some air. Bella nodded at him, lost in her thoughts as she stared at the page of a book, unseeing.

Since the moment Sherlock had stormed out of their house at the age of seventeen, Lucian had always kept track of where the boy was. They had managed to get him to go to university in London, a travesty considering he would have walked through most courses at Oxford or Cambridge the way the rest of the family had.

It was half nine, late enough that the child should be asleep, if Sherlock really had him and wasn't foisting him off on half the inhabitants of London.

So it was with some surprise that, when he knocked on the door, he was faced with a blond haired boy who yanked it open and blinked up at him while munching on what looked like the remains of a chocolate cake.

"Yeah?" the boy tilted his head in a very Sherlock way. "If it's about the power cut earlier then for the last time we had nothing to do with it," he said earnestly.

"Is your father in?" Lucian asked, trying not to stare at John. The boy was…if he thought about it he'd end up trying to hug the poor child.

"Sherlock," John called not turning away from the door. Instead he stood as if a guard dog, unwilling to allow entry unless orders came from on high. His hand, stained with chocolate smears and what looked like scraps of brown tape and glue, was tight on the door in case he needed to slam it at a moment's notice. "Someone wants to bitch-" the boy broke off and glanced at Lucian, "-talk to you," he remedied quickly.

Sherlock wasn't one for swearing. For all his faults, that had rarely been an issue.

Sherlock appeared behind John, looking for the briefest second more relaxed than Lucian had seen in years. But then the expression closed off and the posture became sharp and defensive. Anger flared in the cool eyes and Sherlock strode forward, picking something up as he walked.

"Here," he said to John, holding out an I-pod and a pair of headphones. "Put this on and keep packing."

"But-"

"I don't care if it's that ridiculous song you came home singing the other day about letting dogs out. Just put it on and put it on loud."

John glanced up at Lucian as if they were the adults in the room, graciously accepting the headphones with a sigh as he popped them in his ears.

"And don't think I can't hear when you turn it on," Sherlock added, fiddling with the controls. John almost jumped when the music started. "Go," he said, turning John in the direction of some boxes.

"Interesting parenting," Lucian said, shutting the door behind him.

Sherlock just sneered. "Why are you here?"

"You can't just tell us you have a son and then walk out," Lucian said firmly. "You didn't even tell us his name."

"John," Sherlock replied breezily, "There, you can go."

"Nor that you had custody."

"What more do you need to know?" Sherlock asked, folding his arms. "Mycroft has undoubtedly told you what facts you need and now both embarrassments are living under one roof and far away from your important little life."

"You think he's an embarrassment?" Lucian stepped forward. "You, you are the one who threw your life away after all we did to ensure that you had the best possible starts-"

"Spare me your lectures, I have no interest in them. Or you."

"You cannot keep that boy from us-"

"Why not? He's my son."

It was said with such absolute forcefulness that Lucian lost his breath. "He isn't a toy."

Sherlock stepped dangerously close. "Get out," he breathed angrily. "Now."

Over Sherlock's shoulder John was staring wide eyed, an ear bud on his shoulder. In his peripheral vision, Lucian saw Sherlock wince and turn his head to John. After a long look, Sherlock turned back to Lucian and fixed him with a commanding glare.

Then, to Lucian's shock, Sherlock turned and walked to John, crouching down in front of him.

"It fell out?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded, eyes darting between Sherlock and Lucian warily. "I thought you said no-one cared about…" John shifted and stepped a little closer to Sherlock, his body language screaming for reassurance.

"This has nothing to do with you," Sherlock said frankly. Lucian almost stepped forward to correct him but stopped himself when John's thin shoulders sagged in relief.

"Who is he then?" John asked curiously, shooting Lucian such a suspicious look that it looked wrong on his young face.

Sherlock's head turned in Lucian's direction slightly. "No-one," he said after a thought. "No-one you need to know."

The barb hurt, stung and made him wince. "I'm your grandfather," he corrected, determined Sherlock wouldn't do this, wouldn't cut them out.

What he hadn't been prepared for was the sudden panic in John's eyes and the way the boy almost tried to step into Sherlock. It wasn't a hug exactly but it was probably the closest thing Sherlock would allow.

What the hell had Sherlock told him?

"I'm here," Sherlock said softly. "He'll be gone soon."

The tone seemed to relax John a little, but his eyes were that of a wild animal, cornered and desperate for rescue as they stared at Lucian.

"Pyjamas," Sherlock said suddenly, ruffling John's hair a little. "Go."

John threw Lucian another look," Do I have to come back out?" he asked with reluctance.

"No."

John didn't spare Lucian so much as a backward glance as he fled from the room.

"Whatever you have said to that child-" he begun, striding forward.

"Shut-up," Sherlock snarled, moving far too quickly to stand and meet him. "He is merely aware of the circumstances around his conception. I have no idea what Anna said to him exactly, or her motivations but he knows that his grandparents wanted nothing to do with him-"

"That's not true-"

"You told me," Sherlock was so close now it was intimidating. "You told me it was for the best, you said I should be glad, grateful that the baby was gone. Do not come here pretending otherwise. You are not a part of his life and you are not a part of mine. Am I clear?"

A horrible, terrible dawning realisation was starting to bloom. "You didn't care," Lucian said slowly, "I saw it in your eyes. You didn't care."

"You never gave me a choice," Sherlock hissed. "The moment I started to…you never gave me an option."

"You didn't want it." Please god, say he hadn't read that wrong all those years ago.

There was an odd expression on his son's face. "Six weeks," Sherlock said lifting his chin. "I'd had six weeks to get used to the idea, to…and you made that decision without even asking me."

"Don't stand there and claim you wanted him," Lucian snapped. "You didn't."

"I was starting to. I was starting to wonder-" Sherlock cut himself off. "This is a pointless discussion. You never gave me a chance with him and now I am repaying the favour."

He tried to push Lucian towards the door, but Lucian placed his feet flat and ensured that if Sherlock wanted to shove him out the door he'd have to put a hell of a lot of effort into it.

"You never said," Lucian tried to remain firm. "You never gave me any indication-"

"Why would I? I'd gotten a girl pregnant at sixteen, all you wanted to do was sweep it under the carpet and pretend the entire situation had never existed. After all, what would all your precious friends say-"

Lucian hit him.

Sherlock's head snapped to the side and he stared at the wall as his lip started to bleed.

"Don't you dare say that again," Lucian breathed, panting. "You have no idea how much it tore your mother up, how it went against every fibre of my being to agree. If you'd have come to me and told me that you had even a flicker of doubt then I would have fought tooth and nail to keep that child. But you didn't. Too proud, too stubborn and independent to admit you needed help."

And he could see that stubbornness still. "I don't need your help," Sherlock said, "I have no intention of raising him the way you raised me and Mycroft."

"Yes, that's abundantly clear," Lucian muttered looking around the living room. "Will you be teaching him the correct way to snort cocaine too? You'll ruin the child Sherlock, you know you will. He needs someone stable, somewhere safe."

His son froze, eyes widening as if something had just occurred to him. Then Sherlock sniffed dismissively and a dangerous smile appeared. "Oh, did Mycroft not tell you? My ten year old son is an accomplished liar, pickpocket, thief and con artist."

"Don't even try it," Lucian said firmly.

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow. "John," he shouted. "Give our guest back his wallet."

John's face appeared around the door way. "I don't have it," he said, frowning in confusion.

The poor boy. As much as it pained him to admit it, they needed to get him away from Sherlock right-

Sherlock tilted his head to one side and they seemed to have some odd silent dialogue. Then, to Lucian's sudden shock, the expression danced off John's face and he grinned at Sherlock. Seconds later Lucian's wallet arced through the air.

Sherlock caught it, opened it and then rolled his eyes and held out a demanding hand.

His grandson had actually…Lucian needed to sit down.

John slunk out of his room, dressed in pyjamas that were almost too small. He kept Sherlock in between himself and Lucian and then stopped dead.

"Did he hit you?" John breathed in horror.

It was such a mess.

"The twenty," Sherlock said snapping his fingers.

John's chin set into a very familiar stubborn pose. "I'll need it to buy ice," he said throwing Lucian a filthy look.

"Keep it," Lucian said hoarsely, almost collapsing to the sofa.

"No," Sherlock said fiercely, "We have had this discussion about pickpocketing. You know the rules."

Lucian felt an insane urge to laugh. Sherlock? Making up and enforcing rules?

The world had gone mad.

"Mum said if your parent wallops you, you're allowed to take whatever you need to survive."

Lucian buried his face in his hands. Oh god. What had that poor girl had to do? He had an horrific image of Anna, sixteen, alone, frightened, pregnant.

It should never have been that way.

They should have seen it, but both she and Sherlock had been so quiet about the whole thing. They should have checked when Anna went missing that she'd had the abortion.

They should have checked even if she had.

"I do not need ice to survive, do not be so dramatic," Sherlock huffed. "The twenty. Now."

Alone, what had she done for money? From John's skills he could quite easily guess what she had done. The world his grandson had been born in to.

It tore at him. John should have been born to safety, security. He should have been surrounded by family, doting aunts and uncles.

Him and Bella.

Sherlock.

"It was a good lift," John's voice rang out sullenly. "You didn't even see it."

"I was distracted."

"So? That's half of it."

Then Sherlock snorted with laughter.

Lucian lifted his head enough that he could see John grinning shyly up at Sherlock, looking delighted. Sherlock seemed reluctantly pleased with the situation as he replaced the note one handed into Lucian's wallet, the other hand absently stroked John's hair.

He loved the boy.

Lucian wasn't even sure if either one of them were aware of the fact. Sherlock had the brains of a scientist or a philosopher but he also had the emotional awareness of a door nail. No doubt he always found some rationale behind his actions. Some form of logic or acceptable justification.

And he should have remembered that. He should have known that Sherlock had no idea how to show love or fondness, especially for something as illogical as a parent's love for an unborn child. The fact that Sherlock actually acknowledged that he had felt _something_ was a sign of how deep those feelings must have run.

And with that knowledge the entirety of Sherlock's early adult years shifted into something very different. Not a wild, selfish and uncaring boy looking for fun, but a confused child looking for an escape from emotions he had no idea how to cope with.

There had always been an odd comfort in Sherlock's wild child days. Lucian had tried to take solace in the fact that, unlike with Mycroft, he and Bella had done everything they could with him, that it had been Sherlock's innate personality and not their parenting. After all, they had clawed enough back with Mycroft to make a difference.

That comfort was gone; ripped away and suddenly every conversation was being replayed, every possible confusing word…

It was as if they had been having two entirely different conversations since the moment Nigel Watson had phoned him, screaming about Sherlock and Anna.

"Must you do that?"

Lucian lifted his head properly, suddenly aware that his cheeks were damp and vision blurred. Sherlock stood, clearly awkward and baffled by what he was seeing. Behind him, John looked slightly curious.

Of course he would. To him, Lucian was some stranger who had walked in to his home, yelled, hit his father and then started crying.

"Go on," Sherlock murmured to John, directing him back again. "Go to bed, or at least pretend to do so."

Quick as his father, John scampered away.

Sherlock tutted and tossed the wallet in the sofa. "He didn't steal it from you," he said after a long looked at Lucian. "He pocketed it from me."

Startled, Lucian looked up. "You stole from me?"

"You were annoying. Being forced to walk home seemed the easiest punishment," Sherlock folded his arms. "It isn't that bad, he isn't some dangerous criminal."

"I failed you," Lucian stared down at his hands. "I should have asked."

"Yes, well," Sherlock sounded uncomfortable with the idea. "It's done now."

Lucian stared at the bedroom door. "Is he all right?" he asked slowly. "That sort of lifestyle-"

"He…" Sherlock shifted. "We manage."

Lucian nodded, accepting that was as much as he was likely to get out of Sherlock for the time being. "We..." he hesitated, but found he couldn't leave without asking, "We would like a chance to know him Sherlock."

Stubborn as ever, Sherlock looked away.

"I know you want to protect him-"

That drew a glare, "I am not some pandering, indulgent parent," Sherlock snapped. "Do not make it sound as if I am."

"Please."

The one word had an odd effect on Sherlock. He looked away and around as if trying to find something to use as a defence.

"It would mean so much to us. To both of us. And I'm sure Mycroft wants to get to know his nephew."

Sherlock looked doubtful. "Because he made such a wonderful impression when he met John."

Mycroft viewed the entire world as a battle ground. The fact that he did so even with a small child was no surprise. Sad, but no surprise.

"You know why," Lucian said softly. "Don't hold that against him."

"Oh yes," Sherlock said bitterly. "Mycroft is never at fault. There is always some excuse when it's him."

Such a mess.

"Sherlock. Please."

"No."

The word was absolute and Lucian needed a moment to process. "Sherlock-"

"No." Sherlock grabbed at his elbow and hauled him up. "I don't care what argument you use, what manipulations you stoop to-"

"I'm not-"

"-You are not part of his life." Sherlock pulled him to the door. "Get out," he said, yanking it open.

The moment Lucian stepped out, his wallet was thrown after him and the door was slammed shut with such a force he was surprised the walls didn't shatter from it.

* * *

On the other side of the door, Sherlock leaned against the panel.

It was irrational to be irritated by something that was so far in the past, so unable to be changed. Foolish to let his mind nudge at the possibilities that could have been if he had-

"Are you okay?" John asked sounding worried.

"Go to bed," Sherlock murmured against the door.

"But-"

"Go to bed," Sherlock yelled turning. "And stay in your room for once. I need to think, not be distracted."

John's jaw trembled and he darted back into his room, the door closing almost soundlessly.


	4. Logic and Sentiment

**Logic and Sentiment**

Summary: Sherlock needs to make a decision about John.

* * *

**20th November 2005**

It appeared that children were very sensitive. Or maybe that was just John. Though thinking about it, from what he'd reluctantly glimpsed when forced to interact with children, John was possibly a far less strenuous type of sensitive than most.

Or, as Sherlock supposed some might say, John had been crying, was making a valiant effort to hide it and was therefore not looking for attention, but rather seemed to be looking for a drink and was trying to be as silent as possible.

Still, the idea made Sherlock freeze. The thin shoulders under the pyjama top that always made him look so much younger, were hunched as the boy made himself a squash, his movements careful and ginger.

Sherlock watched him, unable to take his eyes off the sight. John wasn't meant to cry, especially as Sherlock wasn't particularly equipped to deal with crying of any kind. Just the idea of it made him uncomfortable. Either there were big, irritating, attention seeking wails that he despised or pathetic little sobs that made him suddenly aware of just how sentimental people were.

And it was odd. Distinctly odd that he felt annoyed that John hadn't come to him. John had obeyed him after all, left Sherlock alone for long enough to…

Ah. Thinking about it John probably shouldn't even still be awake. It was a school night…early morning and children needed sleep or they became more unbearable.

Still, Sherlock couldn't work out his feelings on the matter. What would have been the point for John to have found him and announced he was upset? Sherlock would have simply tried to get the boy to stop crying and John had managed that independently. He should be proud his ten year old had managed something that most people in their thirties couldn't seem to do.

As if feeling Sherlock's eyes, John hunched even more and murmured something.

"In English?" Sherlock queried, still eying the boy from his position on the sofa.

"Sorry."

That one word made Sherlock shift and squirm. "Unnecessary," he said firmly.

"You said not to bother you," the miserable tone continued.

He supposed he could let that slip. Bother and disturb were similar enough for a ten year old to mistake one for the other.

"It's late," Sherlock said, and then wrinkled his nose at his own words. Small talk. What an awful example to set.

"Sorry."

"Stop apologising," Sherlock snapped. Then hissed in annoyance at himself when John curled in on himself and looked braced for something.

He was just making this worse.

"I...There was room for improvement on the way I handled that situation with my father earlier," Sherlock said to the sink behind John.

There. That should suffice.

Finally, John turned to him, hugging his glass to his chest as if it were one of those stuffed animals children seemed so attached to.

"Is he coming back?" John asked in a quiet voice.

"Probably." His father would take a few days to lick his wounds and then return.

The hands on the glass tightened.

That…wasn't normal.

Sensing that he might have missed something suddenly, Sherlock leaned forward and regarded his son.

Too scared. Too nervous for a boy that could wander around London all day on his own and knew the limitless benefits of walking as if you knew where you were. Too cautious for a child who broke the law on what could occasionally be an hourly basis. His son wasn't frightened of vague shadows in the night or a 'scary' story.

There was only one possible explanation: he'd met Nigel Watson.

"He knew about you?" Sherlock breathed, furious suddenly. "Your other grandfather, he found you?"

John took a step back to the sink, eyes huge and round.

"When, when did…no," Sherlock closed his eyes and saw Anna's charge sheet. "A year ago. He found you both didn't he?" he asked, moving.

"No," John whispered, shaking his head.

"No, didn't find you…bumped into you." Sherlock felt an insane amount of jealousy at that. "What did he do?"

It was surprising to find that, at some point, he'd stood, made his way over to John and knelt in front of him. Scared blue eyes stared down at him and John bit at his lip, clearly hesitant to say.

"John?"

"Nothing," John shrugged and stared at the floor.

"You are lying-"

"He just wanted his money back," John looked to Sherlock's side, almost squirming at having so much attention fixed upon him. "Mum stole from him when she left to have me."

Sherlock sat back. It was either that or pace and potentially hurl something and pretend it was Nigel he was throwing out of a window.

"Money?" Sherlock questioned blankly.

John nodded, relaxing a bit as if they were returning to safe ground. "He said mum could waste her life on nothing but she wasn't wasting his money on it."

It? Nothing?

John.

Sherlock could feel his temper skyrocket. John must have picked up on it because he sucked in a breath and looked around.

"Can I go back to my room?" John asked cautiously.

Sherlock nodded.

His son dashed off as if chased by the hounds of hell, leaving Sherlock staring at the counter. Dimly he was aware that if he lost in his temper in his usual manner it would terrify the life out of the boy.

So he stayed where he was and thought.

Mycroft had, in passing, mentioned he had seen the Watson's at some function last year. It was rare for the Watson and Holmes family to mix these days but the occasional mutual friend would hold an event.

Nigel Watson had known last year that John existed and said nothing. Worse, he'd deprived Anna of money, forced her to repay something she couldn't afford.

And implied…

Unable to sit quietly any longer, Sherlock stood, pacing the tiny kitchen.

Sherlock doubted that was the worst of what he'd said. Clearly the true meaning of that comment had sailed over John's but there had doubtless been others; Nigel wasn't that intelligent to create continuously subtle remarks.

Viciously, he turned and kicked the cupboard he'd stared at for an age; again and again until it broke off its hinges with a satisfying crash.

Temper expelled, Sherlock bent over the sink, trying to get his breath. Slowly, as the murderous rage passed he was aware of the utter silence. The room felt strangely empty, as if something was missing or had gone wrong.

Sherlock just had no idea what it was.

* * *

_Nigel Watson knew about John last year. SH_

_Really? Must have slipped his mind. MH_

_Quite. SH_

_Our father looked rather unhappy leaving your flat Sherlock. MH_

_Really? How unfortunate for him. SH_

_Don't be childish. MH_

* * *

At ten past eight, John emerged, dressed for school and with a huge yawn.

"No."

It was almost amusing to watch John turn about himself as if looking for a clue. Eventually the boy stopped and looked up at Sherlock curiously.

"Go back to bed," Sherlock demanded.

"But-"

"You've been up half the night. Go to bed."

John opened his mouth, then suddenly it was as if his brain caught up and he realised that he was arguing to go to school.

With stilted movements, John turned and walked back to his room.

* * *

"Mr Holmes?"

It was the inane receptionist.

"Why are you calling me?" Sherlock asked.

"John isn't at school." There was a tremor in her voice.

Sherlock blinked at the mobile and frowned. "I know. He's here."

"Oh…" she sounded startled, "You haven't phoned to say he's sick."

"Why would I?" Sherlock asked, genuinely baffled by the concept. "I know he's here."

"I…" the woman seemed equally confused, "we need to know why he isn't at school."

"Are you questioning my ability to decide whether my son should be in school? Believe me; I have no wish to keep him in that flat unless-"

John's door closed and Sherlock stared, a sinking feeling in his chest. John's hurt eyes emblazoned in his mind.

"Mr Holmes?"

"He'll be in when he I deem him ready," Sherlock announced imperiously, ending the call.

* * *

Sherlock sat, staring at John's bedroom door, thinking, his mind drifting to the same issues he'd been pondering eleven hours ago.

As much as he had tried, as much as he didn't wanted to, as much as he hated the idea of wasting time over something that couldn't be changed, his mind continually drifted back to wondering what would have happened had he told his father how he'd felt when Anna announced the pregnancy.

Not that he had any idea how he felt, neither then or now.

It was stupid. Useless. Worse than useless.

What was more important was the fact that his father had an idea lurking in the back of his head, one that wasn't fully formed yet and probably unrealised, but it would grow.

His parents wanted a second chance. They were desperate for it; to protect a child the way they hadn't protected Mycroft, to take pride in a child the way they couldn't with Sherlock.

John was their second chance and Sherlock was…he imagined they'd find some justification if they decided to take John.

And they could. If Mycroft sided with them, they could. Even if Mycroft kept out of it, as he was likely to do, they would likely win a custody battle.

What was more confusing was Sherlock's own reluctance to allow that to happen.

The entire reason he'd taken John was to ensure the boy was safe; not bounced around in the foster system and threatened by the shadows lurking in Anna's life. His parents could offer that and leave Sherlock free for the work again.

Logically, John should go. He could still see his son whenever he wanted; play the role of big brother which should be appealing in its own way.

Yet he didn't want that. In fact, he hated the idea of sending John away.

So he needed a plan; a way of making his parents unwilling to risk a custody battle. Unfortunately his only plan so far was to give his parents access to John.

John who was scared, tearful and hurt because Sherlock wasn't equipped for this. He wasn't parental or traditional, didn't bake biscuits or take him to after school activities.

And still he wanted John to stay. Yet part of him questioned what was best for John…

Why was this so bloody difficult? His thoughts were bouncing all over the place.

He needed a logical list- what was best for him and John; reasons to keep the boy or hand him over.

* * *

The list did not balance the way he wanted it to.

Three times he picked up his mobile, intending to call Mycroft or his parents to tell them to pick John up.

Each time he did he couldn't seem to press the button. Despite the logical arguments, all thirty four of them.

In the end he slumped, resigned.

This wasn't logical but it appeared he was doing this; the single parenting nonsense. And he was doing it properly.

* * *

The room was silent when Sherlock opened the door. Boxes were in the corner of the room; John had done a little more at some point. His son was curled up in the middle of the double bed; it had been Sherlock's but he had taken the sofa when John had moved in.

He looked tiny; a mound of blankets with a ruffled head of hair on the pillow. The blankets rose in a way that told Sherlock John was wide awake and pretending to be asleep.

It was dim in the room; the curtains were closed and it looked bare.

Hardly an interesting place for anyone to be left for over ten hours.

A feeling of guilt stirred within him.

As if deceived by John's act, he sat on the bed next to John. To his credit, the boy barely reacted. Hesitant, because he'd never done it quite so intentionally, Sherlock reached out and stroked a hand through John's hair.

The blond strands were thick but short and bristled under his hand. Not baby soft as he'd been told children's hair was. John was too old to be referred to as such; he'd completely missed out on that stage. Moving his hand back, he rested his hand on John's hair and stroked his son's forehead with his thumb.

Suddenly John turned, sitting up and drawing his knees to his chest, worrying at his lip. "I'll be good," John suddenly said seriously. "I promise."

"Good?" Sherlock questioned.

John nodded, eyes bright. "Don't make me…" he trailed off, forlornly resting his chin on his knees and staring at the bedspread.

""Don't make me…?" Sherlock asked.

"Go." John finished and cringed, his chin trembling. "I'll be good," he said again, as if desperate to make Sherlock believe it. "I will, I will-"

It was impossible to watch. Leaning forward, Sherlock gathered the boy up and John just went, throwing himself into Sherlock's arms and trying to bury himself into Sherlock's chest. Hands clutched at Sherlock's shirt and then sobs racked through his body.

After a second's hesitation it was oddly instinctual to wrap his arms around John, to press a kiss into the messy hair and to drag John properly into his lap.

"Tell me," Sherlock said softly into John's hair. "Tell me."

John shook his head fiercely.

Okay. John was upset. He was scared of Nigel but that wasn't the cause of this…

John whispered something against his chest. It was on the tip of Sherlock's tongue to remind the boy that enunciation was the key to being understood but he didn't think that would be helpful-

"Tell me," he said again, keeping his voice softer than he had in years.

"No-one wants me," John whispered.

That hit. It was like being shot or dumped in freezing water. For a moment he forgot completely how to breathe.

What had John heard last night? Half conversations about their reactions to the pregnancy, to the news that John existed. His own stupid phone conversation and attitude since the moment John had arrived.

He'd ruined it. All of it.

John was ten. Ten years old, scared, living with someone he'd never met before. His son was much more fragile than he'd thought and strangely that didn't annoy him as much as he'd assumed it would. Instead, it just made him tighten his arms around John.

"I do," he whispered back. "I do, I promise you, I do."

John peeked up at him, eyes huge and doubtful.

"Look at me," Sherlock pulled back and cupped John's face with his hands. "Yesterday, what you heard; my father wanted to take you home with him."

That seemed to utterly confuse John. "But-"

"And I didn't want him to," Sherlock frowned. "I…I will not lie to you. I do not want distractions or routine or…" it suddenly occurred that he hadn't fed the boy breakfast, "regular meals," he sighed. "But…I find myself reluctant to give you up despite all that."

If John were more awake, or less emotional, he might have understood what Sherlock was trying to say. As it was his son just blinked owlishly at him, dazed, exhausted and confused.

"I…" He was going to have to say it. Say something more…obvious to soothe John. There was a reason he wasn't eager to do relationships. These statements of sentimentality were uncomfortable to discuss. "I…"

He stared at the wall over John's head and then looked down, suddenly surprised by how…not uncomfortable the sentiment was. "I won't let anyone take you away from me. Ever."

A spark of hope appeared. "Really?" John asked.

"Ever," Sherlock confirmed, pulling John back into his chest. "You're mine now."

* * *

John had fallen asleep against him and Sherlock couldn't bring himself to move away from him. In the end he stood, taking John with him, found his laptop and searched for a healthy food delivery company before giving up and putting a call through to Angelo who was all too willing (disturbingly willing) to lend a hand.

"Well," Sherlock looked down at John's peacefully sleeping face resting on Sherlock's shoulder as if he'd spent his whole life doing it. "Let's try this again, shall we?"


	5. Moving Forward

**Moving Forward**

Summary: Sherlock attempts to make amends with John.

* * *

**Thursday 26th November**

It was oddly exciting to stand outside the school gates. Not because the people were interesting (because they weren't) or because the school building was a feat of modern design (because it certainly wasn't) but because he wanted to see John's reaction.

And he wanted to see how John acted at school. There was an odd fascination to be found in that idea. What was John like as a pupil, as a student? Was he diligent? Disruptive? Popular? Quiet? Did the teachers see he was clever? How did his peers react to that? How much of a mask did he put up? Did he steal at school? Did he get away with it? How did he exact revenge against those he disliked? What did he look for in friends? Did he have friends? How many? Were they good enough, interesting enough? Why had he chosen them?

How was it that he didn't know the answers to these questions?

In the past week since deciding to become a parent, Sherlock had found a whole wealth of unexplored knowledge pertaining to his son. Inexcusable blank spots in his knowledge that he needed to know the answers to.

There, they were being released from the school building. Lots of little blue jumpers pouring towards the parents. The freakishly young and small ones came out first, looking easily breakable as they wandered over to parents who cooed down at them.

What had John been like at that age?

He had an odd urge to dig out the albums he had shoved into a box weeks ago and placed into storage. It was stunning how much he suddenly wanted the pictures. Or a valid construction plan to build a time machine.

It was strange how young they all seemed, how utterly and completely dependent they were. All looking worriedly for a parent or clustering together in protective groups of friendship.

And then he spotted his son, talking to a few boys who looked unkempt; their hair greasy, t-shirts stained and, despite the colder weather, without coats. The other children seemed to steer away from them, some with worry and some with scorn.

It was fortunate that John would be moving school after the Christmas holiday. Sherlock could see the looks on the faces of the adults that glanced in his son's direction and felt himself start to bristle.

John didn't even glance up. There was nothing in his attitude that suggested he felt worried or nervous about walking home. In fact his face was alight with laughter at something one of the other boys said.

Anna had done a good job with him.

That thought crossed his mind, unbidden, as confusing in its content as its origin. Shaking it away, Sherlock stood and felt a touch of amused annoyance as it became apparent that John was going to walk straight past him.

So much for the boy inheriting his ability to observe!

At the last moment John, as if sensing someone was looking at him, glanced over and stopped in shock. And, though he turned his head to one of his friends in answer to a question, his eyes remained fixed on Sherlock as if he might vanish the second John looked away.

Eventually, John tore himself off from the boys and dashed over, still looking disbelieving.

"Did they call you in?" John asked nervously. "I didn't do it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Anything," John remedied slowly. "I didn't do anything," he added, as if the clarity of the statement might detract from the earlier slip.

"It would appear you have gotten away with your latest crime," Sherlock said looking over at the school. "I am here of my own free will and volition."

John mouthed the word and wrinkled his nose, "You're gonna make me look that word up, aren't you?"

"Indeed." Sherlock held out his arm and John, hesitating at the sight, ducked under it, obeying the silent command to walk beside Sherlock. "Are you sure you can survive here for the rest of term?"

John nodded then glanced up at him. "What would you do if I said no?" he asked curiously.

"Mycroft could teach you," Sherlock threatened.

"School's good," John looked fearful at the idea of being alone with Mycroft and seemed to shake the conversation away. "Why are you here?"

"I forgot to tell you this morning," Sherlock said as they crossed the road, "We have moved."

"To Mrs Hudson's?" John asked suddenly enthusiastic, probably delighted at the idea he was about to be fed enough muffins to fill St Paul's.

"To Baker street," Sherlock corrected.

* * *

When Anna had been younger, she and her brother had been given a dog for Christmas. Sherlock could still remember the way it had bounded around the house three days afterwards when they had visited for tea and pleasant conversation. The dog had made him Mycroft and Anna almost laugh because of how eager it was to explore every single part of the house with sheer delight.

The dog had been gone by New Year's.

Despite that, John was doing a perfect impression of the animal. Not entirely sure if it was a worrying display of mental health, Sherlock watched him bound up the stairs for what surely had to be the fourth time.

"It's huge," John announced coming back down. "Are you sure it's all mine?"

It was a room. Sherlock wasn't really sure what the joyous issue was, but all the same he allowed it. "Who else would be in there with you?" he asked, folding his arms.

John didn't seem to care that he was being mocked. Instead he looked over his shoulder and up at the room again, his mouth opening.

Then, with a glance at Sherlock, the mouth closed and John bit back whatever it was he had been about to say.

Sherlock let it go for now. He had discovered that interrogating the boy wasn't always a wise plan. Last time John had seemed bewildered and all of his answers started to have a questioning tone to it as if Sherlock had suddenly decided to spring an exam on him and expected correct answers rather than truthful ones.

* * *

**29****th**** November**** 2005**

The request, when it finally came that weekend was so simple that Sherlock was stunned John felt the need to even ask.

"Can I…put things up?" John asked with a worried expression that morning.

"Things?"

"Pictures?" John asked, toeing at the rug. "Of…of Mum?"

Part of Sherlock desperately wanted to awkwardly reply that the boy could and just leave it at that.

"Why wouldn't you be allowed?" Sherlock asked, sitting back in the chair.

The question seemed to make John stutter with nerves and Sherlock winced mentally as he suddenly saw the picture he had created. Leaning back in the armchair and pressing his fingers into a point under his chin may not have been the best posture to be in when asking that question.

Conceding that, Sherlock stood and gestured for John to go up to his room, then stood to follow.

The boy had worryingly little in his room; largely because Sherlock had been an idiot and put Anna's things into storage without bothering to ask John if he wanted anything.

Mistake number seven by Sherlock's list.

"It's just this one," John said his hand curling around the creased photograph protectively. "I can use white tack," he added hopefully.

It was like being in a doctor's room. The walls were beige, the curtains dull and the bed an off white and still a double bed.

"You should paint it," Sherlock said suddenly, trying to remember what children's rooms were meant to look like. His had been blue, he remembered vaguely; blue with anatomy drawings that his mother had despaired of.

John looked horrified and pulled the picture to his chest.

"The room, you idiot child," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I have no interest in promoting any awareness of modern art."

"You can't paint the room," John said, suddenly sounding scornful. "We're renting. Landlords never let you paint things," he added with a mutinous tone.

Sherlock stared down at him.

"Mrs Hudson?" he roared down the stairs, "We're painting."

"I'm not getting it for you," her voice still managed to sound scolding as it drifted up from the landing as she put her coat on.

"There," Sherlock turned back to John. "Colour?"

With some awe, John stared at him and then at the walls, suddenly seeming daunted by the idea. "Um," he looked at Sherlock with worry, "Uh…"

"You're not being timed," Sherlock sighed. "Decide by lunch."

* * *

"Green?" John asked as he munched on a sandwich, watching Sherlock set up a microscope.

"Are you asking me or telling me?" Sherlock asked, adjusting the height.

"Telling?" John asked slowly.

Sherlock regarded the boy over the top of the equipment. "I do not care what colour it is. I will not have to see it."

"Green then," John said petulantly, glaring at the table.

Sherlock looked down the lens and then up. "I will not have to see it every day," he remedied, "or did you want me to come up every day?"

Amusingly, John looked as if he couldn't decide the answer to that. "So you don't mind?"

"Why should I care if you wish to paint your walls the same colour as public toilets?" Sherlock asked, placing the blood slide in and adjusting the focus.

"Why would public toilets be green?" John asked, sounding as if his nose were wrinkling as it did when he was baffled by a new concept.

"Limits the stains."

John, after a second of silence, started to giggle. "Really?" he asked delighted.

"Indeed," Sherlock said with a smile.

Having agreed on a colour, Sherlock was now faced with the problem of how to get the paint onto the walls. The physical act of painting held little appeal but John seemed eager…

John, who had been looking out the window, fascinated by the people below suddenly stiffened.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked with a sigh. Typical of his brother to time it to arrive just before Sherlock had finished his data analysis.

"And him," John said stepping back with worry at the idea of Lucian. "And a woman."

What were they thinking? Hissing in irritation, Sherlock abandoned the slides and walked over to John, looking out of the window as he placed a reassuring hand on John's shoulder.

Indeed, all three were talking on the street, an act his parents probably found vulgar. His father's shoulders were set and his mother looked upset. Mycroft was distinctly uncomfortable in a way that Sherlock hadn't seen in years.

No.

They were not meant to have come to this conclusion before Sherlock spoke to them and offered his solution.

John looked up and then at the door.

"No," Sherlock turned to him fully. "Listen to me," he said, kneeling in front of John. "I told you I wouldn't let them take you from me."

John's eyes widened with fear.

"And they won't," Sherlock said quickly. "But I require your assistance in this."

"Me?" John sounded doubtful.

"They will convince themselves that they are trying to take you for your own good," Sherlock didn't even glance when the doorbell rang. "We need to make it clear that you belong with me."

A rare smile appeared on John's face and he nodded, shyly eager.

"Promise me," Sherlock gripped the back of John's neck, oddly needing the contact. "Promise me you won't change your mind."

That lit a fire in John's eyes. "Promise," he said firmly and then his chin tilted and the smile turned wicked. "Besides, we bought that paint now," he said with a shrug.

Delighted, Sherlock stood, pressing a kiss to John's forehead as he did so. The door downstairs had opened and he could hear Mrs Hudson talking to the party. His hand lingered in John's hair and he wasn't entirely sure who was more reassured by the touch.

"In my room," Sherlock said, letting John go. "You're my last resort, understand?"

"But…" John glanced down as the stairs creaked, "They upset you too."

The statement was oddly warming. "I am your parent," Sherlock said softly so the group on the stairs wouldn't hear. "Not the other way around."

But his stubborn son just took a deep breath and stayed where he was, even as he pressed against Sherlock for reassurance.

For better or worse, it appeared John was staying for this discussion.


	6. What's best

What's Best

Chapter Summary: The Holmes Family discuss what's best for John

* * *

**29****th**** November 2005**

The problem was that all the men in Sherlock's family were tall.

Really tall.

Hopefully it meant he would have a growth spurt. John was pretty much average in the class at the moment, but it would be ace to get to tower over everyone like Sherlock did.

But it did also mean they were a bit…tall and, maybe, just a little bit scary, especially when they all towered over him, peering down at him with that expression…

Mycroft came in first. Sherlock's brother looked like a prime mark, except for the fact that he had those eyes, the same look in his eyes that Sherlock had; the one that made John wonder if he could see through walls like superman could.

Wouldn't be worth it. Even if his watch could buy an xbox and games with money left over.

Those eyes looked at him and then up at Sherlock and John tried not to push too far into Sherlock. Even if Sherlock seemed to be a little happier to have him around at the moment it was probably a good idea not to push his luck.

John almost jumped when he felt a hand stroke through his hair lightly. Sherlock seemed to be doing that a lot recently. John wasn't sure if he should show how much he liked it; Sherlock might think he was being silly or sentimental. Even from just living with him for almost a month, John knew how much Sherlock hated anything that could be thought of as sentimental.

Mycroft frowned down at him in disapproval and John resisted the urge to swallow nervously at the expression.

"Do you think that's wise?" Mycroft asked, nodding at John.

The tone made John want to push even further into Sherlock, but he levelled his chin and then peered up at Sherlock, wanting to hear what he was going to say in return.

_I need your help_.

No-one ever let him help. Not properly. No way was John ruining his first shot at it. Otherwise Sherlock might think he wasn't worth it, or not ask for his help again.

"Ironic, don't you think?" Sherlock murmured, looking as if he was going to stick with his decision much to John's relief. Pleased, he looked back at Mycroft trying not to look too smug,, even though he didn't have a clue what they were talking about. But it seemed as if Sherlock had made his point as Mycroft narrowed his eyes just as two people appeared behind him. He stepped to one side to let them through.

The man…his…no, Sherlock's father stopped at the sight of him and threw Sherlock a look as well. But John barely had any time to look at him properly, which was a bit of a relief given how much more stern he seemed than last time.

And last time he'd hit Sherlock.

Just the thought of it made him frown and the man's face fall slightly while Sherlock almost seemed to sigh next to him. Curious, John peered over at him, half expecting a sneered insult or some big reaction, but Sherlock seemed to be holding himself stiffly, watching them with wary eyes.

"Oh," the woman said, drawing his attention suddenly over to her as she stepped forward cupping her hands around a smile. "Hello, you must be John?"

Lost, John looked up at Sherlock who seemed to be muttering something under his breath. The woman, who he guessed must be his grandmother, bent down to him and on his shoulder he could feel Sherlock's hands tighten fractionally.

"My name is Bella," she smiled at him. "I can't believe how much like your mother you look."

That got his attention. Mainly because she was the first person, the first family member who mentioned his mother and used a fond tone. Almost hungry for it, he relaxed a little bit, leaning a little towards her instead of trying to push back.

"Yeah?" he asked shyly.

Next to him he felt Sherlock switch his attention down to him. Curious, he looked up to see that same unreadable expression on his face that meant he was thinking about something hard.

Bella looked between him and Sherlock. "Yes," she said with that same smile and a gentle nod of her head. "She was a lovely child. And you definitely have the Watson nose," she added.

The Watson nose? John shifted fractionally closer to Sherlock. He liked the idea that he was like his mum, but the Watson family? No. He didn't want anything to do with the angry red faced man who had yelled at his Mum last year.

Bella's face crumpled slightly and she looked up at Sherlock again, her eyes searching for some kind of an answer. And, suddenly away from her attention, John stared between Mycroft and the other man, the other grandfather both of whom were watching silently.

"Sherlock," the man said, firmly. "He shouldn't be here."

"For this," Mycroft said, jumping in quickly. "For this conversation."

Why? He wasn't a baby, he could cope. It wasn't as if he hadn't heard this stuff before.

"He is staying," Sherlock said firmly. "In every context."

A little flutter danced in John's belly at the words and helped him lift his chin in silent agreement.

His grandfather let out a bark of a laugh and shook his head bitterly with a sigh and paced into the room. Bella stood and turned to him, worry in her eyes.

"This," his grandfather snapped suddenly, "This is why you can't raise him Sherlock. You'd rather keep the boy in here to win an argument than keep him upstairs-"

"He isn't stupid," Sherlock snapped. "He'll know we're talking about him."

And over him. John scowled as they conducted the conversation over his head, glaring at the adults pointedly.

They didn't seem to get that hint. Instead, his grandmother looked at him sadly. "Would you like to go upstairs-" Bella begun.

"No," John said shortly even as Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration, muttering in a furious tone under his breath. John could kinda sympathise – it was annoying when people ignored you.

"Fine," his grandfather folded his arms. "You are selfish and spoiled-"

Sherlock laughed, "Spoiled? If I am so spoiled then surely you would be indulging my whim-"

"Your whim! Exactly." His grandfather seemed to jump on it. "You cannot raise a child on a whim."

"Do not lecture me on child rearing. You produced that," Sherlock said as he jabbed a finger at Mycroft. "Neither one of us are exemplar outcomes of good parenting."

"Sherlock," Bella said, sounding hurt. In the corner Mycroft let out a long, almost bored sigh.

"You cannot raise a child," his grandfather seemed to be building up steam now. "You will ruin that boy."

"That boy is my son," Sherlock snarled. "Mine. Not yours."

"And what will happen when you get bored of that?" his grandfather yelled.

John stepped back a little, slightly terrified of the possible answer.

"Lucian," Bella soothed in a far softer voice after the snapped words. "Sherlock, we are simply concerned about your long term plan with this. You have that job of yours; it's hardly easy to be a single parent in the best of circumstances-"

John stared wide-eyed as his grandparents seemed to crowd Sherlock, saying all those things that John worried about…

Mycroft gestured at him, summoning him over.

"-amused by your attempts to play perfect parent given your actions when I was a teenager-"

John tried to close his ears as he slunk over to Mycroft, determined not to appear pathetic.

Again.

Mycroft gripped at his shoulder and led him down the hall. John glanced back at the other adults, at Sherlock and his Grandfather who were snapping at each other. Sherlock had told him to help, so maybe he should stay…

"Let them argue," Mycroft said quietly. "They'll wear themselves out on it and then we can talk to them properly." Then he shut the door, turning their voices into muted mumblings. Wary, John stared up at him; not entirely sure why Mycroft had taken them out of the room. Mycroft looked back searchingly as if wanting to find something inside of him.

"You are enjoying living with Sherlock?" Mycroft sounded as if he knew the answer to that question already.

John nodded slowly. "Yeah," he said, not really sure what Mycroft wanted.

"Why?"

John shrugged.

There was an annoyed look and Mycroft pinched at the bridge of his nose as if pained. "I would like to know why it is you wish to stay with Sherlock," he said after a pause. "He isn't the easiest person to live with, believe me; I have experienced it."

"Better than the kid's home," John muttered.

"Then you would have no objections to living with my parents?"

No, wait! John looked at Mycroft beseechingly. "I… no; I want to stay here."

"Then tell me why," Mycroft demanded.

"He….he's starting to like me," John said, pleadingly. "And he doesn't yell at me for stealing things or lock me in my room. And he wants to paint my room, even if I want to paint it green like a toilet."

A rather confused expression crossed Mycroft's face, but he seemed to dismiss whatever it was he found odd. "Do you feel safe with him?"

John peered up at him. "It's almost impossible to pick that lock on the front door," John muttered. "He knows all the tricks."

"That isn't…" Mycroft almost smiled. "Just the two of you; you feel safe with him?"

"Think he could do in a fight," John nodded. "He's weirdly strong."

The lips twitched again. "Do you feel scared of him?" Mycroft asked again, trying to clarify his point.

"Oh," John gaped at him. "Are you asking me if he hits me?"

"No," Mycroft shook his head. "I'm asking you if you feel scared with him."

"No," John pulled a face. "He's only just started to remember I'm here most days."

The amused look fell away. "Does he make sure you're fed?"

"Mrs Hudson's gonna make dinner for me," John announced. "But he used to take me to one of the shops up the road."

Mycroft nodded. "And if something happened, if you were scared about something or it was an emergency, what would you do?"

"Cope?" John screwed up his nose. "I'm not stupid," he added.

"I see. And if you needed help?"

"I wouldn't," john tilted his chin. "I'm ten," he said firmly.

"Indeed."

* * *

Mycroft left his nephew in Sherlock's room. He had a suspicion his brother would be far from amused at John entertaining himself with what looked to be the start of an experiment on his shoes.

Tough.

When he emerged, his parents and brother were still fighting, still arguing, unsurprisingly. His father and brother were three shades shy of shouting at each other while his mother would pipe in with softer comments in a way that always seemed to throw Sherlock and momentarily split his attention.

His parents had almost thirty years of practise at wearing Sherlock's stubborn nature down.

Mycroft watched them. So thoroughly enthralled by their fight they were that they had failed to notice John's absence and his return.

It was mildly annoying; Mycroft couldn't remember the last time people had ignored his entrance into a room.

"John is staying," he announced firmly.

The words stopped them all dead and they turned to Mycroft; Sherlock with disbelief and his parents…also with disbelief.

It had been a while since he had seen them all look like that.

"I beg your pardon?" his father said, breathing in sheer incredulity.

In the car they had discussed it. They had agreed, firmly, that they had to do what was in John's best interests.

It was always amusing that their parents had never worked out he and Sherlock would follow the letter rather than the spirit of the law.

"John is staying with Sherlock," Mycroft repeated calmly.

Opposite him, Sherlock blinked and then an ugly look passed over him. "Of course," Sherlock sneered, "Saint Mycroft decrees it and so it must be so."

He could never just accept help.

"Are you joking?" his mother asked, stepping towards him. "You cannot possibly be serious-"

"What do you think you're doing?" his father snarled. "We agreed-"

"We agreed to speak to John. As it is, I have," Mycroft answered calmly. "John will be staying here. And let us not pretend that of all the people here I don't have the most influence upon this matter."

Power. There was a reason he had desired it as a child.

Sherlock, seeming to decide to take his victory where he could, beamed at his parents arrogantly. "You may leave," he announced imperiously.

"But with conditions," Mycroft interrupted Sherlock's glee.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked over to a chair. "Such as?" he asked, sitting.

Mycroft almost braced himself for the diet quips. "Every Sunday we all have dinner."

Sherlock stood up. "Absolutely not-" he started, "That's not happening."

"You do not have to participate." Mycroft soothed. "But John does."

Unusually for Sherlock, he faltered, his expression hesitant as he weighed that idea up. Seeming confused as to what purpose it would serve, he looked back at their parents, as if to check that they hadn't had a part in this.

Their mother looked hopeful. Their father furious.

"Why?" Sherlock asked blankly.

"Because he needs to feel comfortable enough with us to call in an emergency," Mycroft explained, thinking of John's earlier confusion. The frankly blank look John had given him when Mycroft has asked John what he would do if he needed help had been the most worrying part of their conversation.

"He will call me," Sherlock stated, arrogance dripping from his tone.

"No, he won't."

That seemed to make his brother flinch. He stared at Mycroft, as if to burrow into his mind to see what had made him so certain that John wouldn't call.

"And you may have cases that go on for weeks. He will need a back-up option should you be busy," Mycroft continued. "I will see the boy once every Wednesday for an hour additionally. You will introduce him to Lestrade and Scotland Yard so that they are aware that if it is a long and complicated case I must be called."

"You despise children," Sherlock muttered.

"As do you."

His parents were looking at each other; an unspoken conversation going on that not even he or Sherlock could read. In the end, their father nodded sharply and looked away. "Every Sunday, without fail or excuse, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder and then ahead at Mycroft, clearly feeling boxed in, which was dangerous when dealing with Sherlock.

"And, unless you have an important case, you will come as well," their mother said suddenly.

That was pushing it. Sherlock's face screwed up in utter distaste, clearly hating the idea. But Mycroft could read his little brother like a book. It may have been more than he had been willing to give, but even Sherlock, possessive and selfish as he was, had acknowledged that he needed to placate their parents in some way.

For John's sake.

It was surprising how much Sherlock had already started to change.

Sherlock turned back. It was obvious from his face that he was already finding loopholes around their mother's vague definition of 'important'.

"If I agree, will you all leave?" Sherlock asked haughtily.

Their father slammed out of the room. Moments later the front door went as well.

* * *

When Sherlock walked into his room, John was on the floor, staring at a shoe sole and then at the imprint as if trying to work out what to do with it all. Startled, his son looked up, eyes widening at the sight of him.

"I…" he bowed his blond head to look at what he was doing. "It was Mycroft's fault."

Highly amused by that, Sherlock sat himself on the floor opposite John. "Did you listen to the terms and conditions?"

John looked down at the shoe and then up at Sherlock. "It talks?" he asked with some awe.

Clearly not then. "You are staying here," Sherlock said fondly, reaching for the shoe.

"They're gone?" John asked with some relief as the object was taken from him.

"Yes." Sherlock had checked with the homeless network that Mycroft hadn't parked around the corner and that his father had walked across London in a temper.

"Are they coming back?" John asked, watching Sherlock turn the shoe in his hand.

"No. But they did have conditions that we need to meet."

John drew himself up. "Like a contract?" he asked, part of him clearly puffing up at the seemingly adult way of dealing with this.

"In a manner of speaking. We must have Sunday lunch with them."

John's eyes widened. "Why?" he whined.

"Something about feeding you," Sherlock waved a hand.

"Have they met Mrs Hudson?" John asked earnestly. "I did tell Mycroft that she feeds me."

Interesting. What else had Mycroft asked? "Mycroft believes that you should have a relationship with your grandparents," Sherlock said carefully, examining the print.

"Do I have to?" John asked petulantly.

He was skirting dangerously close to having to defend his parents.

Another day perhaps.

"Yes." He could leave it at that for now. There was no part of him that could find a merit in that idea right now.

"Do you have to?" John asked quietly.

"No."

John froze. "What if they lock the door and keep me there?" he asked, eyes widening again.

Sherlock laughed, then sobered when he realised John was being serious. "They will not kidnap you," he said firmly. "They're far too dull to do that."

John didn't look convinced. "But-"

"And I will go with you on occasion," Sherlock offered.

The first two times.

Maybe three, if John's expression remained terrified.

"And Mycroft wishes to see you on Wednesdays."

Strangely John didn't seem as concerned by that as Sherlock thought he might be. An odd surge of jealousy erupted. John was his, not Mycroft's.

"What ridiculous questions did he ask you?" Sherlock asked curiously.

John shrugged. "Kept trying to work out if I felt safe with you." He didn't sound impressed with Mycroft's line of enquiry.

"And?"

"Yeah," John didn't seem to understand the importance of the question. "Way better than the dumping ground."

That was hardly a glowing recommendation. "Why?"

John rolled his eyes, "He kept asking me that as well," he complained, as if to convince Sherlock that just because he'd answered the question once, he wouldn't have to answer again.

"Then the question should be easy to answer," Sherlock said tightly.

"I don't know," John glared at him. "I said I felt safe, that you fed me, and that you didn't hit me." Something crossed his face.

"Anything else?"

John squirmed. "No."

Liar.


	7. Sunday Lunch

Sunday Lunch

Chapter Summary: Sherlock and John go over to Lucian and Bella's for the world's longest lunch

* * *

**5****th**** December 2005**

It had to be perfect.

Bella fiddled with the fork, polishing it once again when she noticed a smear.

How long had it been since she'd had both Mycroft and Sherlock for dinner, let alone that darling little boy with his angelic colouring; all big eyes that were fixed upon Sherlock, looking for clues as to what he should do next.

Sherlock had no idea how lucky he was, how easy children were at that age when they thought their parents could fix the world itself if they needed to.

She wanted it to look warm and inviting. There were no flowers on the table, instead just greenery in a spray along the middle. Nothing too fancy to eat; soup, followed by roast beef and a chocolate dessert.

Boys John's age adored chocolate. Unless they were Sherlock, but Sherlock wouldn't eat dessert so he was one less to worry about.

No alcohol at the table either. It seemed a safer bet.

"It will be fine," Lucian said gently as she cleaned the fork again. Gently, he took it from her and laid it down precisely on the table.

"I want him to feel welcome here," she confessed, turning away to pick off an unsightly leave. "I want them all to feel welcome here. Even Mycroft doesn't visit as much as I would like."

She could tell Lucian doubted that place settings and the menu were going to help. But it was so often the little things that could make a difference. Her husband clenched his jaw and sighed.

"It wasn't your fault," she said, stroking a hand up his arm. "You were surprised. None of us handled that day well. If I hadn't…I might have talked to you, talked with you and you wouldn't have gone over there."

"It's done now," Lucian shook himself. "My own grandson stares at me as if I'm about to pull a cane out on him," he frowned. "I should never have hit Sherlock."

"He'll see," Bella promised. "He'll see that was a one off-"

"You know Sherlock," Lucian backed away a little. "If he's angry enough about this, he will find a way to rile me."

Their son did have an unfortunate gift for it. "We have to give him the benefit of the doubt. Otherwise we've lost them both before we've begun," Bella warned.

The look in Lucian' eye suggested he thought that already.

* * *

"I can fake being sick," John offered as they crossed the road. "I'm good at it. Mum managed to nick all kinds of things when we were in Sainsbury's."

Sherlock winced and turned his head to look down at his son. "Do not mention that when we get there."

"Why?" John asked, peering up curiously beneath his woollen hat that Mycroft's assistant had dropped off. Finally, Mycroft had a use.

"Because my mother will get upset, my father will get tight lipped, they'll eat slower and we will not get away as quickly. The aim of this is speed."

"Will there be cake?"

Sherlock shook his head. "If you turn down dessert I will allow you to pick from any bakery we pass on the way home."

"No price or size limit?" John bargained.

"I don't have to go," Sherlock reminded him as they walked into the park.

"Fine," John kicked at the path. "Shouldn't we slow down?"

"No. If we're late we will be lectured, also resulting in more time wasted at that house. If we are on time, I will be accused of being pedantic."

"That means fussy right?" John asked hopefully.

It would do. "Our only option is to get there early, stun them into silence, thus making them forget about what is likely to be a seemingly unending list of small talk topics."

"Can't we just… not go?"

"No. Mycroft has texted me every day so I have no excuse for forgetting," Sherlock complained, still bitter about it. "Besides, you have to see him in three days' time. I assume you would prefer to know a little about him first?"

"Every Wednesday," John whined. "Does that really mean _every_ Wednesday?"

"Be thankful he is scheduling an appointment. More often than not he just turns up at the most inopportune moments and expects the world to stop for him." Sherlock stopped them as his parents' house came into view. "Stop a moment," he said, reaching out a hand to John.

John dutifully stopped and looked up at him expectantly.

The broken arm gave John almost no trouble now, especially when they ensured he was well wrapped up against the weather. His bright blue scarf and winter hat made his face look even rounder and nose even redder. The puffed jacket gave John the appearance of a tightly bundled ball. Sherlock stared down at him, trying to work out what his parents would see when they looked at him. He looked well fed, warm and at ease… well, he had. The more Sherlock stared the more the nerves started to appear and John's shoulders hunched uncomfortably. "What?" his son asked defensively.

"Merely checking you are presentable," Sherlock turned on his heel, confident that his son would follow.

Sure enough he heard the quick stomp of trainer clad feet chasing after him.

As he approached the house it appeared Mycroft had the same idea about the timing. The sleek black car was just pulling up outside the steps.

"Is he everywhere?" John asked with a little too much amazement for Sherlock's liking.

"That's because he has nothing else to do with his life," Sherlock said loudly as Mycroft got out of the car, "Other than drive around, watch people have fun, and then pass judgement."

"Couldn't find a way out?" Mycroft asked closing the door. "Maybe next week will provide the obvious option."

There wasn't one.

Sherlock was almost sure of that. Mycroft just wanted to annoy him.

Though he would re-examine the possibility the minute he got home.

"Why waste it on the first Sunday?" Sherlock said breezily, as if he had plenty of ideas to get John out of dinner.

John kept walking.

With an odd glance at Sherlock, Mycroft cleared his throat and both of the watched the boy turn back to them.

"I thought you wanted to be early?" John asked, tilting his head to the side with great difficulty, bundled as he was in his hat, scarf and coat collar.

"We are," Sherlock blinked at the boy.

"But…" With a look of dawning horror, John looked at the building Sherlock and Mycroft were stood in front of. "You're shitting me?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the language. "No, I am not 'shitting you'," he said, letting his tongue flicker in disdain over the phrase.

"But…" John floundered hopelessly, "Do you know how rich the people are that live here? This is prime dipping area."

Mycroft winced and stared at the sky. "Dipping?" he asked Sherlock.

"You know what the word means," Sherlock hissed. "This is where they live," he told John. "And we have had conversations both about your language and picking pockets. You will do neither here."

"Anywhere," Mycroft coughed.

"Don't ask for miracles," Sherlock snapped at him.

John looked at Sherlock as if he were suggesting they should dive into the mouth of hell rather than walk up the steps to the door.

"Think of it as an inspection of what you will inherit one day," Sherlock said, steering John in the direction of the steps as soon as he was within arm's reach.

John snorted, "Not with the way you go through a deposit," he muttered darkly.

* * *

The doorbell rang and Bella drew in a deep breath. Across from her, Lucian put the paper down with clear reluctance.

"It'll be Mycroft," Lucian said, standing.

Nodding, Bella followed her husband to the door, just in case-

The sight of Mycroft and Sherlock standing side by side at the door with John in front of Sherlock took her breath away, even if John's face was pulled into a pained look and Mycroft seemed as if he wanted to tidy away something frustrating.

"You're early," Lucian breathed.

"Indeed," Sherlock pushed John in a little. "Tour of the house before dinner. I'll show him the way."

And with that Sherlock shepherded John up the stairs and out of sight.

Both Bella and Lucian turned to Mycroft curiously.

"I believe they're doing inventory," Mycroft said solemnly. "Or possibly have formulated a grand and daring escape off the roof."

There was a crash upstairs.

"That seems inconclusive either way," Mycroft said after a moment.

* * *

It was like having two children in the house.

"This was your room?" John asked, staring around as Sherlock hid the broken china in a drawer. "You lived here?"

"One usually lives with their parents at some point in their life," Sherlock confirmed. It seemed he might just get away with the vase being irrevocably damaged. No-one had looked at the back of these drawers for years.

Some of it was as old as John.

"Yeah but you're old."

Sherlock glared at John over his shoulder.

"-der," John added, grinning. "Than me."

Nice try. "This house has been in our family for generations. Time was all the Holmes' would be under this roof."

John pulled a face at the idea, one that Sherlock heartily approved of. "So you're posh?"

"Useless word," Sherlock cautioned, closing the drawer. "Far too many variations of definition."

"You're not like a lord or something though, right?" John asked, looking worried at the possibility.

"Not a title we can claim anymore," Sherlock assured him. "And no," he said, when John opened his mouth. "I am not 'shitting you' about that either."

* * *

"You are angry?" Mycroft said slowly as they sat in the parlour with tonic water and lemon.

Lucian shook his head and stared out the window and into the garden. "Not with you," he said eventually.

"I'm sure that's not entirely true," Mycroft replied slowly. "I fear I rather derailed the plan."

Yes. Lucian took a sip of his drink, part of him longing for the bite of alcohol. "Why?" he asked, turning around to face his eldest. "What did John say to you to make you change your mind?"

Mycroft turned the glass in his hand, the weak winter light catching it and sending colours flying across the wall. Lucian could see the debate in his son's head as he sat still.

"When…when you found about me, what was it that had stopped you from seeing the evidence before?"

As if kicked to the stomach, Lucian stepped forward urgently, "I swear to you, I had no idea what my father was-"

Mycroft held up a hand. "I am aware," he said quietly. "But I am also aware that our childhoods were not entirely dissimilar. I am merely asking why the idea never crossed your mind?"

Lucian pinched his lips together. "I made an error in judgement-"

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. For a second Lucian could see his fifteen year old son, staring up at him with disbelief as Lucian painfully explained he knew exactly what he was talking about.

It wasn't as if Mycroft hadn't heard it before.

"You know the answer," Lucian admitted after a pause. "I believed it was a combination of simply different parenting and that…he had been correct to do as he did with me. A foolish mentality."

Mycroft nodded slowly, "There's a saying I believe; 'can't see for looking'. You simply didn't expect to see it because it wouldn't match what you believed. The same then, I believe is true for Sherlock." Mycroft took a sip. "You and I both struggle with him; he has never known to feel fear or to be burdened with responsibility." He frowned at the floor. "As much as I am grateful for it and would never wish that upon him…his attitude always irritates me, unfairly perhaps. But he doesn't understand you and me; nor does he especially try."

Lucian strode to sit opposite Mycroft. "He cannot raise this boy-"

"Yet he is," Mycroft answered. "Sherlock is very aware that mother's conditions are ones he can and likely will wriggle out of. Yet here he is, willingly, for John. He hasn't taken a case in weeks to be with the boy."

Lucian blinked in surprise at that. "I...my worry simply is that when the novelty wears off-"

"Whether it does or doesn't, this is the best way," Mycroft said. "Sherlock is doing no harm to John right now; John couldn't even understand what I was asking him when we discussed how safe he felt. The one concern John has is that Sherlock doesn't want him. That Sherlock will tire of him."

"Hardly an unreasonable concern," Lucian said. "Is that not the same concern we all have?"

"Sherlock will either change or he won't. Regardless, John yearns for that attention from him. If we fight Sherlock we will ensure we lose him and that John will resent us for taking away his chance to earn Sherlock's attention. More, Sherlock will fight harder because we make it interesting."

That made some sense, but it was hardly without fault. "John…" Lucian steeled himself as this was not likely to be well received by Mycroft. "John knows I hit Sherlock when I went there."

Mycroft stiffened and fixed him with a furious glare.

"I shouldn't have done it," Lucian nodded. "I know that. And then…whatever Anna had told John about her father…I fear I've lost him already."

Mycroft pressed his lips together, "Nigel Watson saw Anna last year."

He had? "And John?"

"He knew of his existence. Sherlock hasn't managed to get much more out of John."

Hadn't managed? If that wasn't an indicator that Sherlock had mellowed somewhat then Lucian didn't know what-

His thoughts broke off as the rest of Mycroft's words sunk in. Nigel had known? He'd known about their grandson? John, being raised in a sea of crime and misfortune and had said nothing? With a snarled sound, he stood.

"Father-"

"We should have taken her in," Lucian said to the wall. "It seems that no matter what I do, or how hard I try, that boy ends up suffering for my actions."

* * *

His father and Mycroft had clearly had one of their little council meetings, Sherlock thought bitterly as they sat at the table. Probably debating their newest scheme or commiserating over their shared annoyance of him.

Next to him John was staring at the table with surprise and Sherlock watched him bend back a little so the light caught the silver mark on the handles of the cutlery.

Amused that his son was at least checking the quality of what he wanted to steal, Sherlock tapped him on the leg and shook his head ever so slightly as a warning.

"I wasn't gonna," John complained, as if it were an utterly implausible idea that his son might steal the silverware.

"Good." Sherlock said leaning back as a bowl of soup was placed in front of him. John peered down at it, head tilting to the side in thought.

"Tomato soup," his mother said brightly, thanking the maid. "Please start," she implored.

The expression on John's face almost made Sherlock want to snigger. "What is it?" Sherlockk asked quietly, his voice sounding far too loud in the uncomfortable silence.

"It's got bits in," John stared up at him in confusion.

"Basil leaves," his mother said helpfully. Across from them, Mycroft's mouth twitched with amusement while his father, at the head of the table opposite his mother, winced as if seeing something they didn't.

"Oh," John pulled his spoon through the soup a few times, as if to check there wasn't a difference under the surface. His shoulders fell a little and he gingerly added some soup to his spoon and raised it to his lips.

The nose wrinkled and John looked pained at the taste. His mother's shoulders fell and his father seemed to be trying to catch her eye.

Not looking at any of them, John took another spoonful, clearly not enjoying it.

Across from them, Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

As if sensing their gazes, John looked up like a startled baby deer and smiled tightly. "'t's nice," he said unconvincingly.

"John-" his mother began.

His father reached over and tugged the bowl from under John's nose, sliding it across the table. Then he took an apple for his pocket and placed it on the dinner mat in front of John.

"Try that instead," he said calmly as if this wasn't the man who had thrown a fit once when Sherlock had refused to eat Christmas dinner.

Slowly, John turned to look up at Sherlock, as if for permission. Beyond John, the look his father gave him was nothing short of a warning.

"I doubt he's poisoned it," Sherlock said, taking a sip of water. John's eyes widened and he stared down at the apple suddenly wary.

"Well done," Mycroft muttered, glaring at the ceiling.

"Oh for-" It was this house; everyone lost any hint of good nature when walking into it. Sherlock reached down, picked up the apple and bit into it. "There," he said as he passed it back to John.

John, ever the soul of good nature, shrugged and bit into it happily after that.

"When is the main course to be served?" Sherlock asked as John started to fidget.

Whose idea had this been? As if eating in a tense and wary silence was enjoyable for anyone at the table.

"It went in after soup," his mother replied calmly.

Excellent…no…wait…

"After the soup?" Sherlock asked blankly.

"Mm, I wanted us to have time for a chat in between courses. It should be ready in just under two hours."

Hours? Hours?!

The woman was the devil.

Mycroft actually checked his watch and then glared at her. "Mother, we have things to do-"

"And you all promised me Sunday dinner."

"Lunch," Sherlock and Mycroft both corrected instantly.

"And you will stay until it had all been served."

Infuriated, Sherlock glared at Mycroft. "Happy now?"

"I had no intention of staying this long either," Mycroft snapped. "Unlike you, I have responsibilities."

"As do I. It is merely unfortunate that my responsibility happened to be invited as well."

"Enough," their father snapped. "You are both being insufferably rude to your mother. She has worked hard at this."

"She has a cook," Sherlock breathed. "How hard is it to request an item?"

"You have a cook?" John asked, sounding even more horrified.

His mother stared at him and then at John. "I help her," she said, looking uncomfortable. "And it isn't as if she's here every day."

John sighed and looked up, seemingly spotted the chandelier and then groaned.

"Did Anna cook?" his mother asked.

John opened his mouth to respond, but seemed to think better of it and threw a pleading look at Sherlock.

"Oh by all means, explain it to her," Sherlock sat back feeling dangerously close to sulking. "She appears determined to make us stay all night."

"Sometimes she would," John said, sounding a little nervous. "But mostly we'd run out on the cheque."

"Run out on the cheque?" his mother looked blank. "What does that-"

"Without paying," Sherlock said, bored of the matter.

"Oh," his mother chirped. "I…Oh."

"Just weird," John seemed to assume that because no-one was raising their voices he should take that as carte-blanche to say anything. "I mean," he took a sip of water, "Mum struggled to pay for a Greg's pasty sometimes and you guys have someone to cook for you in the house. It's amazing."

That seemed to effectively kill that conversation.

* * *

Dinner came and went, Mycroft bearing the brunt of the conversation. Dessert was a chocolate mess that had obviously been an attempt to bribe John into showing good will.

It worked. Besides, the bakeries would all be closed by now. John tucked into the mess with a glee that made his mother smile fondly.

Then came coffee with a hot chocolate for John.

Sherlock was seriously starting to fear that John's previous worry of his parents locking the doors and forcing them to stay forever wasn't far off the mark.

* * *

His father requested a word.

As if he hadn't suffered enough. There was no way he was doing this next week. He would fake a call, be nice to Lestrade, anything.

This was just sheer torture.

To Sherlock's surprise, they went to the conservatory instead of his father's study, which had always been the place of lectures.

"John seems to be doing well," his father started as he closed the door behind Sherlock.

"And you have what base of reference to make that conclusion?" Sherlock snapped.

"Fine," his father seemed to instantly drop the act. "I just wanted to thank you for putting up with the day. I will try to rein your mother in next week."

"Do what you like next week," Sherlock muttered. "I will not be here to care."

"You'll leave him on his own here?" Anger now. That at least was familiar. "How can you think that will be a good idea?"

"True," Sherlock nodded as if conceding a point. "After all, we all know what Grandfathers in this house do to their grandsons."

His father went pale with fury. "Never say that to me again," he hissed. "Never, do you hear me?"

Sherlock stepped close to him, daring him silently. "Just because you failed at fatherhood does not mean I will," he said cruelly.

He walked away before his father had a chance to respond.

* * *

In the living room, curled up in front of a quiet television, John lay sound asleep.

And, just like that, the anger at his father drained away as Sherlock crouched to study the sleeping face.

"You purposefully annoy him," Mycroft said quietly from the other door.

He never had to try. It seemed to be his gift. "You'll wake him," Sherlock scolded gently, trying to keep his voice quiet so as not to disturb his son.

"You press buttons without even understanding them," Mycroft stepped in closer.

"I neither require nor care for your opinion," Sherlock said firmly as he slid a hand underneath John. His son frowned at the movement and then seemed to lean into him, which gave Sherlock the space and leverage to pluck John off of the sofa and up into his arms until John's head was buried into the crook of his neck.

Mycroft watched him, an odd expression on his face. "You were never at the mercy of our grandfather; do not use him to draw blood from our father."

Sherlock shook his head, John's hair catching his nose at times to tickle.

"I am sick of being made to feel guilty for that," Sherlock snapped, a little louder than he had intended. John stirred slightly in his arms.

"Guilty?" Mycroft used the word as if he'd never heard it before.

"Ungrateful, spoiled. Whatever you wish to call it. Our father cannot seem to respect anyone unless they suffered as a child and learned their place."

Mycroft's fingers were white with anger. "You are so utterly self-obsessed-"

"Bored," Sherlock drawled, stalking to the door.

"You are failing." The sheer cruelty in Mycroft's voice stopped Sherlock dead. "That boy is convinced you will get bored with him, that you will forget him. That you will stop caring once you're little experiment into this has run its course."

"Oh no, really?" Sherlock asked mockingly. "How did I miss such an obvious-" he broke off shaking his head as Mycroft blinked in surprise, laughing at his older brother's expression. "Of course I know that. What would you like me to do?"

"Talk to him," Mycroft breathed, still looking unusually unsure about the matter.

Sherlock shifted John in his arms. "I am proving it to him, you blind imbecile. Proof, actions! Not empty, meaningless words."

"You told father you weren't coming next week."

"I don't stay with him at school either. Do you think that will have detrimental effects?"

"Sherlock-"

"I make it worse," Sherlock snarled. "We do not get on. We never have and never will. Let's not make this an exercise in torture for John as well."

John's hand tightened on his sleeve and Sherlock sighed. "Go back to sleep," he murmured down at his son. "We are finished talking."

He said the last with a filthy look at Mycroft before he walked away to collect his son's coat. A sleepy eyed John obediently put the coat on, looking only half aware of what was going on. It was impossible not to pick him up again as he walked to the door and slammed his way out.

Though as he did it made John jump in his arms. Perhaps in future he would ensure he only stormed out of a building when his son wasn't half asleep in his arms.


	8. Sins of the father

**Sins of the father**

Chapter Summary: Sherlock and Lucian both struggle to put issues from the past behind them

Author's Note: This is a new chapter added in. Not entirely sure how/if this works so reviews might not match up.

* * *

**9****th**** December 2005**

John took one look at the building and balked.

Sherlock couldn't blame him really; he hated the Diogenes club. It was full of stuffy men who loved their ridiculous rules and traditions more than life itself. The idea of introducing his son to that world grated upon Sherlock; life was meant to be full of exploration, questions and curiosity not suits, delegations and politics.

"Here?" John asked, with another worried look. "But…"

It looked boring? 'Posh'? Dull?

Sherlock would allow him that; it certainly was no place to entertain a child. With any luck Mycroft would realise that after the first meeting.

"One hour," Sherlock said, still not overly happy about the idea. "Ask for a drink; that might kill a few minutes."

"He'll make it?" John asked doubtfully.

God no; the idea of Mycroft in a kitchen was utterly ridiculous. "No, but he will have to summon a member of staff, then order, then it will have to be delivered. If there is one thing my brother is paranoid about it is speaking in front of those who shouldn't be part of the conversation."

There was a small glimmer of mischief in John's eyes. "So if I didn't like the drink that might waste ten minutes?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, assuming that the warm feeling in his chest was pride. "Now you're getting the hang of it."

* * *

The boy looked like butter wouldn't melt but within seven minutes of their meeting Mycroft was starting to see his brother creeping through the cracks.

John seemed delighted with the fact that he genuinely disliked the earl grey tea that had been brought to him. Sensing what could probably become an epic distraction, Mycroft had simply requested hot water and a range of tea bags for John to try.

It was the curiosity that made Mycroft smile. So reminiscent of Sherlock when he had been a child and felt that need to try things himself. John had that same urge, not because (like Sherlock) he thought no-one had his insight, but more because he wanted to have the experience.

"It's like lemon!" John exclaimed, clicking his tongue and then peering at the liquid curiously. "Can't have milk in that."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "Do you like that one?"

He could guess that it had been Sherlock's influence that had made the boy ask for a tea he knew he wouldn't like. But John seemed to be under the impression he was winning something with the great tea tasting and was therefore, finally, relaxing around him.

John hummed, clearly not too sure as to whether he approved. Mycroft made up the next one, an Ansleem that had John sniffing in interest as Mycroft finally allowed him to add milk.

It hadn't been until he had walked in a few days ago to Sherlock's flat that he had seen how John must view him. Ordinarily he wouldn't care; he had worked hard to create the persona that ensured he was in control and others were unnerved by him. But here had been something about seeing the look on John's face that had made him want to change tact: the same look that he had seen on his own face far too often when about to face his grandfather.

There was no sign of that look at the moment, thankfully. Instead John slurped his tea in a rather vulgar manner that caused Mycroft to frown.

"I trust you do not need to make that noise when drinking?" he asked.

A flush appeared on John's cheeks and his shoulders slumped a little-

It was infuriating. One second the boy would appear to be a relaxed, cheeky child and the next he would be hesitant, as if waiting to be left out in the cold. It was on the tip of his tongue to demand that John sit up properly and not act like a kicked dog at every rebuke.

The problem was every time he tried to form the statement in his head, all he could hear was his grandfather's tone delivering it and insisting that without the correction he wasn't good enough.

"What do you think of it?"

This time John just nodded and wouldn't meet his eyes.

They almost sat in silence for the rest of the time, punctuated by the click of china as they drank or poured more. John's face when he tried raspberry tea was a picture.

"Why do you want me here?" John asked suddenly.

Startled by the sudden question (and of course it had to come five minutes before Sherlock would likely storm in demanding Mycroft hand John back) Mycroft took a sip before answering.

"Because we don't really know each other."

The head tilt was completely Sherlock as John mulled that idea over.

They sat in silence until Sherlock launched the door open and made a demanding gesture in John's direction.

The boy unwound himself from his seat and left the tea. Sherlock's face crumpled in bafflement as he looked at the amount of tea.

"I like Tetley's," John said suddenly as he walked to Sherlock. "If that helps?"

Sherlock's eyes darted between them, suddenly unsure.

"It does," Mycroft said with a nod. "I will be sure to have some ready next time."

* * *

"Tea?" Sherlock asked as they stepped outside. "He made you try tea?"

John nodded, glancing up at him. "He made me try fruit tea," John said, with all the horror of a purist. "It was like squash gone wrong. And hot," he shook his head, as if that one gesture could rid the world of fruit tea forever.

Sherlock scowled ahead of him, unable to work out if that meant Mycroft was utterly useless with children or whether he had some master plan.

You could never tell with Mycroft.

* * *

**10****th**** December**

"We made decorations today," John said as Sherlock studied the witness statements.

"Why?"

"Because we had to in lessons." Was it his imagination or did John sound a little disappointed

They did home design in primary schools now? What a waste of time. "I assume there were more productive lessons than that today?"

"We did area and perimeter," John said slowly. "And singing as well."

The sooner they got him out of that school the better. Honestly, a lesson on singing? What a waste of time.

* * *

**13****th**** December 2005**

"We'll be late," John warned.

"Don't care," Sherlock said dramatically from the sofa. "I may as well earn the nagging."

Sighing, John rocked back and forth on his heels, glaring down at him. "But…we're ready now. It's just wasting time."

Grey eyes snapped to his. "I'm thinking," Sherlock said, sounding offended. "There's no better use of my time."

Right. John skulked back a little, not wanting to interrupt. The problem was he knew Sherlock well enough now to know that his father would probably decide it was time to leave with only a second's notice so it really wasn't worth starting anything.

Moodily, he stared out the window and at the people passing by underneath. Some had big shopping bags, crammed full and with rolls of wrapping paper peeking out the tops, bobbing along as they walked.

Everyone else had put a Christmas tree up, he thought sullenly. They'd even had one at school and Mr Hayer had let the people with the best poems go out with Miss Fisher to decorate it.

John wasn't the good at literacy work. Whenever he relaxed people would get funny about what he wrote because it wasn't normal or what they expected. It was always safer to just try and write the same thing as everyone else did. His mum had gotten in trouble a few times when he'd been little and before he'd learned that being different wasn't good.

John couldn't imagine Sherlock being quite so understanding about it, even if his mum had asked him to go to his room so she could calm down because she'd been annoyed at the situation. She'd always said that – it was the situation, not him that she was mad about.

"Anyone interesting?" Sherlock asked.

Below him was a boy about his age, munching on a chocolate Santa that shops like Thornton's did. Those shops were a con, his mum said. Paying for a name you ate in seconds.

He shook his head and Sherlock made an annoyed sound. "If it bothers you that much then we'll just go," he said, sounding a bit stroppy about the whole thing.

He didn't want to go. It was awkward and uncomfortable and he didn't feel as if he belonged.

A hand brushed over his hair, startling him. He glanced up at Sherlock in surprise.

"I suppose the sooner we go, the sooner it will be over," Sherlock said slowly.

Miserable, John nodded.

Xxx

He'd intended to not go in. Right up until the second John looked as if he would burst into tears in their living room.

"You're late," his father started to complain.

"Go and see if Mycroft will apologise for the fruit tea," Sherlock ordered John, cutting over his father clearly. John, looking as he would currently rather be anywhere else on the planet, almost ran from the hall. Staring at his father, the man didn't seem to relent in the slightest.

"Well?" his father's cool eyes narrowed at him and then looked at the door.

Drawing himself up Sherlock leaned in close. "You really need to improve your hosting skills. Believe me, neither of us would choose to be here if Mycroft wasn't holding John's custody over us."

With a sneer, he followed the direction his son had taken and watched from the doorway as John, as if deciding it was better the devil you know, had attached himself to Mycroft's side.

"Oh," his mother blinked at him. "You came?"

Ignoring her, he walked over and placed a reassuring hand on John's shoulder and bent to this son. "Shall we continue where we left off last week?"

* * *

Lucian was on his last nerve.

From the minute his son had walked in he'd been difficult. Bella had been almost in tears because she hadn't expected him to turn up and he'd then ignored her, Mycroft had seem baffled and flustered while Lucian himself had bitten his lip all afternoon.

The tipping point was the picture.

"Is this you?" John asked his father plaintively as they entered the dining room.

The picture, when Lucian managed to glimpse of it, was of the family when Sherlock was about four years old; all wild dark hair and big pale eyes. It was possibly the sweetest photograph that existed of his youngest son, snuggled up with Bella and a small smile of his then sweet face. Yet it was never out, never displayed because of the utter dichotomy the picture evoked, for while it made Lucian's heart melt at seeing his son and wife so happy, it made the rest of him want to scream at the expressionless mask of his oldest son while Walter Holmes' hand rested on his shoulder in a white knuckled grip.

Sherlock glanced at it. "Yes," he said, as if unbothered by the photograph of them all.

"You were really small," John said, looking back down at the photograph intently.

Over his head Lucian looked quickly at Mycroft, who had drawn in a deep breath, but seemed determined not to flinch or react to the picture. Bella, sitting down opposite Lucian, met his gaze and shook her head.

The boy had no idea, and long may that remain.

"Most people start off that way," Sherlock replied noncommittally.

"And…" John glanced up at Mycroft, then back at the picture. "You had freckles," he said, sounding delighted at the idea.

Whatever Mycroft had been expecting, that wasn't it. Blinking in surprise, his son nodded. "Yes," he said awkwardly. "I did."

John nodded to himself as Sherlock rolled his eyes, probably at the lack of information contained in Mycroft's reply.

"Who's he?" John asked, pointing at Walter and looking up at them all expectantly.

"My father," Lucian said, hoping to fend off any questions. "He died a few years before you were born."

"Luckily," Mycroft muttered.

It was stupid, but Walter was perhaps the one thing in this world that made Mycroft stupid. John shifted in his seat, suddenly curled in and unsure while Sherlock glared furiously.

"Just because he saw you as a failure does not mean he would have painted John with the same brush," Sherlock snapped.

The room, rather quiet beforehand, turned icy. As if sensing something beyond him had just happened, John darted his eyes at all of them in worry. Lucian was dimly aware of it, even as he sat back, shaking his head at the maid who suddenly lingered in the door with the food.

Sherlock smirked at his cutlery, then rolled his neck to meet Lucian's eyes. "Are we about to witness the Holmes genes in action when annoyed by a younger member?" he taunted.

"You have no right to say that to your brother," Lucian said, clenching his jaw and trying to ignore the wide eyes fear in John's eyes. "Apologise. Now."

"No," Sherlock snarled. "I will however take back the implication. Grandfather would have been mightily pleased with the way Mycroft turned out. And you. His ideals live on as ever-"

Lucian stood, slamming his hands on the table. "I am nothing like him. And your brother is certainly not-"

"Really? You both have your expectations and woe betide anyone who falls short-"

"You didn't fall short," Lucian hissed. "You dived down, headfirst just to annoy and prove a point.

"Father-" Mycroft's voice was tinged with a warning.

"He parades his expectations and demands over me, just because he can," Sherlock snarled, leaning forward. "Because you want him to. You don't think I can succeed at this-"

"You won't," Lucian snapped. "You are being contrary out of sheer stubborn idiocy-"

Sherlock went for him. Lunged as if to hit him but Mycroft moved, quicker than Lucian could remember seeing. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Bella usher John out of the room.

"Your expectation always was that I would fail," Sherlock sneered, shaking Mycroft off. "The only time I disappoint you is when I exceed that."

"Your selfish, arrogant nature is what disappoints me," Lucian, clenched his jaw as the door shut behind Bella.

"Really?" Sherlock stepped dangerously close. "Or is it the fact that I was the only one he never sought to change?"

The urge to hit him was overwhelming, but Lucian clenched his fist and kept it by his side. "That is what disappoints me the most about you," he said tightly.

Never before had he seen Sherlock flinch from mere words and for a second, a split, fraction of a second, Lucian saw the hurt and it stole his breath.

Then Sherlock swept from the room, through the other door and Lucian was left, staring at the space Sherlock had occupied, his heart thudding wildly in his chest as he risked a look at Mycroft.

The words didn't need to be said.

* * *

He refused to think about it, to let the words seep in and fester. Instead, he tried to focus on the victory, the delight that he had always been right about the reason he and his father had never got on.

The victory tasted like ash in his mouth.

"He didn't mean it," Mycroft insisted as he walked in. "You know he didn't mean-"

Sherlock shook his head dismissively, hating that his hands were shaking. "It is of no consequence," he said sharply. "I do not care one jot what that man thinks of me."

The doubtful look rankled him and he hissed in frustration.

"Go home and calm down," Mycroft insisted.

Moving to the door back to John, Sherlock hissed, infuriated when Mycroft blocked his path. "What are you doing?" he snarled.

"I'll bring him back to you," Mycroft said firmly. "You are in no frame of mind to have him at the moment."

Sherlock stared in bemusement. "Nor are they," he said, glaring beyond the door in the vain hope the look might eviscerate his parents.

"He's calm," Mycroft argued, "And drowning in guilt at the moment. Let him have this, you know you his relationship with John will never go anywhere unless you concede this-"

"I shouldn't have to," Sherlock turned away to pace, "He is my son. I am his parent; I do not have to give that man anything."

Mycroft gave him a look. That look that made Sherlock rear back. "Do not use that threat," he said, pointing furiously at his brother. "Don't you dare use that threat on me."

"Then don't make me," Mycroft suggested icily. "You have been petulant and childish since the moment you arrived."

"John doesn't want to be here," Sherlock roared.

"He would have said-"

"No," Sherlock laughed, "No. he isn't me you idiot. He doesn't say it, he never says when something is making him miserable-"

"Clearly," Mycroft snapped. "Because at the moment you are the only one making him miserable."

The mere idea of that cut at him and made him falter. "I make him far less miserable than you," Sherlock lifted his chin, trying to find a winnable answer to this spat.

"That does not appear to be the case today," Mycroft corrected calmly. "You have not helped this situation since the moment you arrived."

Unbidden, Sherlock could feel his gaze dart to the door, feeling more and more of the damn things slamming shut against him.

"Before six," he managed to say. "Not a moment after."

* * *

John stared at the living room door as his grandmother brought his a sandwich.

"Don't worry about them darling," she soothed. "They just need to discuss some things."

Discuss? Did he look like he was four years old and gullible?

* * *

They'd ended up sending John back only forty minutes or so after Sherlock had left. The boy seemed endlessly worried and in the end it seemed as if they were doing more harm than good by keeping him with them.

"Are you all right?" Bella asked as she wrapped her arms around him.

Lucian shook his head.

"Lucian-"

"I'll lose all of them," he said, hoarse with the realisation. "Even Mycroft."

"It's not an easy situation," Bella defended.

"And the more I try to control it, the more I lose," Lucian sunk down into the seat. "I've been… Mycroft said that we should be someone John can call for help, another home to go to if he decided he needs it."

Bella pulled a face, "We both know that Sherlock-"

"Maybe," Lucian rubbed a hand over his face. "Maybe not. Either way, we cannot keep hoping Sherlock will fail."

"That's not what we've been-"

Lucian looked at her, "It's what I've been doing," he confessed, the cursed himself as she pressed her lips together, eyes welling with tears as she nodded.

"We should…" Lucian took a breath. "We should cancel next week, let Sherlock have some breathing time and give John time to…time for this memory to fade."

"But-"

"Bella," Lucian shook his head. "We are squeezing too tight. And…" he looked away. "I don't like what I think John sees when he looks at me."

"Lucian, I'm sure he sees-"

"My father?" Lucian leaned back in his chair as his wife winced. "I am becoming him when I talk to Sherlock, and…" he shook his head, unable to continue. "That doesn't help anyone," he said, hating it.

* * *

"Are you okay?" John asked quietly as Sherlock drew the bow across the strings.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Sherlock asked, sounding distant.

"He shouldn't have said that stuff to you," John offered, trying to be loyal, even if he hadn't quite understood half of what had been said before his grandmother had ushered him from the room.

Sherlock didn't reply.

"I'm sorry I brought him up," John added. "Your grandfather I mean."

The music stopped as Sherlock paused his hand and slowly turned to him. Nervous, John tried to hold his ground.

"You didn't know," Sherlock said eventually.

"'m still sorry," John muttered.

Striding towards him, Sherlock tipped John's chin up a little as he seemed to study John intently. "I imagine that wasn't the easiest Sunday you've ever had," Sherlock said slowly.

Not seeing any point in lying, John shook his head.

"I'll find a way to make it up to you," Sherlock said, sounding a little unsteady over his words.

And that, Jon supposed was as close to sorry as Sherlock would ever get.


	9. Chip off the old block

**Chip off the old block**

Chapter Summary: Sherlock takes John to work as it's one of those holiday things which means John is free on a monday...

* * *

**21****st**** December 2005**

The past week had been surprisingly good despite the hideous way it had begun. Both Mycroft and his mother cancelled the weekly probation meeting, freeing them both up to relax. Sherlock had assumed that Jon would perk up a little, and he had, but there was still something not quite right.

Probably the worry of the week after, Sherlock supposed. He could sympathise with that.

Still he had woken Monday morning feeling positive. John didn't have school because it was one of those holiday things and there was a case. Not the most difficult case in the world but it wasn't gruesome.

It seemed like too much of an opportune moment to let it pass.

His son seemed to be taking forever to wake up. Sherlock crouched in front of the bed, watching the flushed cheeks and the gentle, comforting rise and fall on the bed-spread. Slowly, so slowly, John seemed to stir. Snuggling down even further into his blankets in an obvious attempt to escape waking fully.

"I need to go to work," Sherlock announced loudly.

Those dark blue eyes peeped up at him, blank at first but with some dawning understanding. "Okay," John murmured.

They both stared at each other. Waiting.

"Am I meant to do something?" John asked curiously, a little more comprehension in his eyes.

"Get dressed?" Sherlock offered. "I cannot wheel you down in the bed."

"Oh…" Then John's entire face lit up. "Really? I can come with you?"

"Yes…well…yes," Sherlock nodded. "The body is in the morgue but someone can sit with you if don't want to see the body."

But John, in what Sherlock was slowly starting to realise was typical ten year old boy fashion, looked suddenly desperately eager. "I'll be fine," he assured Sherlock, almost jumping out of the bed.

"We have to visit Scotland Yard first," Sherlock said, oddly touched by the enthusiasm. "I need to pick up…" he trailed off at John's sudden hesitation, "What?"

"The police?" John asked with worry.

"You'll be fine with them." Mostly. They'd probably all think he was a poor little saint for having Sherlock as a father.

* * *

Lestrade nearly dropped his files at the sight of John.

"Jesus," he scrubbed a hand over his mouth. "You can't just take a kid home Sherlock. Doesn't matter if you knew his mum-"

"He's my son."

The files actually dropped to the floor this time as Lestrade gaped first at him, then at John, then back at Sherlock.

"You…" Lestrade seemed lost. "Reproduced?" he asked with some horror.

"Yes, I am a fully functioning human being," Sherlock said waspishly as John grinned. "May we get on with it?"

"He's your father," Lestrade checked with John, pointing to Sherlock in case John had a momentary lapse of memory.

John nodded.

"I…Christ almighty Sherlock, how old were you?"

"They were sixteen," John told him frankly. "He stole a broken condom." The tone suggested that Sherlock should have known better than to make such a rookie mistake.

Lestrade opened and shut his mouth a few times before looking at Sherlock.

"In my defence there were rumours going around suggesting that the original owner of the condom was having an affair. I therefore naturally assumed he would have fresh ones," Sherlock scratched at his neck. "I missed the indents in his shoes-"

"I don't…" Lestrade sat down suddenly on the desk chair closest to him, taking up someone else's cubicle. "I … you … who the hell gave him to you?"

"Social services agreed to it," Sherlock said, feeling mildly offended.

"And Mycroft," John added.

Lestrade eyed John up. "More to the point," Lestrade muttered at John's comment.

"Speaking of," Might as well get the ridiculously humiliating condition out of the way now, especially considering the space Mycroft was allowing him at the moment. He hardly wanted to end that. "Mycroft wants you to phone him if I am distracted by a case so that he can whine about the fact that I have a life."

"You don't always work with me."

"Circulate the request. I'm sure you will all enjoy the fact that Mycroft has decided to play at being my keeper."

Lestrade looked between them both dumbly again.

"Can we see the body yet?" John asked, turning to Sherlock.

"God, he really is yours," Lestrade muttered with a groan.

* * *

It was a good murder to start John off with; a poisoning so the body wouldn't be too gory.

"Um…" Molly, the newest technician at the morgue started at him hesitantly. "We're not really meant to let children down here."

John gave him a look that seemed to be the equivalent of 'get her'. It appeared that no-one was getting in between John and seeing the body.

"I am his parent, I deem it fine."

Molly blinked and stared at Sherlock as if the world were about to collapse. "Oh," she said sounding falsely bright. "I never knew you were married."

God, what would be more dull? "I am just his parent," Sherlock corrected.

Molly seemed to brighten up again. "And where's your mum today then?" she asked John.

"Prison," John replied frankly.

Molly stared at him wide eyed and then nodded. "Let's go get this body out then shall we," she said with a nervous laugh.

* * *

Watching John with the body was nothing short of amusing. His son seemed to dart between being fascinated and disgusted and then right back to fascinated in a matter of seconds. He would dance forwards and backwards, his face showing every emotion.

"Mercury poisoning," Molly said with an 'oh well' tone of voice. "Rather rare these days."

"Mm," Sherlock peered at the fingernails. "And these-"

He broke off when, in the corner of his vision, John jabbed a finger into the corpse's thigh.

"That's really weird," John complained, rubbing his finger, as if he hadn't been the one to initiate contact with the dead flesh.

"No-one asked you to touch it." Sherlock levelled a glare at him and then looked back at Molly. "I assume you've confirmed my identification of the powder-"

Again he was forced to stop when his son for some god unknown reason tried to peek under the sheet covering the corpse's modesty.

"Why?" he asked, starting to feel annoyed.

"Tommy Brown reckons people shit when they die," John told him frankly.

"And you believe they would simply leave the corpses in the mess and stink out the morgue?"

John nodded slowly. "Oh," he said, sounding oddly disappointed. Then suddenly, he turned to Molly. "Do they really crap themselves though?" he asked eagerly.

"Sometimes," Molly replied frankly.

John beamed at the news causing Sherlock to rub at his forehead, pained. "I need coffee," he muttered at Molly, who immediately brightened and dashed off.

"It isn't as if you will be seeing those boys again to brag to them," he said, inspecting the other hand. "Nor would I suggest the best way to make friends is to walk into a classroom bragging about what you got up to with a corpse over Christmas."

"Tommy Brown doesn't go to school," John said scornfully. "He's a bouncer at a club. Mum said he worked as a negotiator when people forget to pay," he added brightly.

Negotiator. What a lovely word for a thug who beat people to get their money. "You talked to him often?" Sherlock asked.

"Twice," John leaned his chin on the metal table. "He's built like a brick. He and Mum snogged once." John pulled a face at the idea. "It was gross."

Sherlock watched him carefully; mind flittering over the possible scenarios that might explain what John had seen. "Was this last year that your mother met Tommy?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "It was cold, Mum would have let me stay with Nell but it was so cold that Nell was wearing a coat."

"Nell? What did she do?"

"I'm not sure," John shrugged. "She got in cars to con rich men out of money. Never got why she didn't meet them inside," he added, as if musing over the idea.

Sherlock said nothing as he bowed his head again, unsure whether to be tickled that John was oddly naïve about the world, grateful that somehow Anna had managed to completely hide that side of their life from John or furious that his son had even been around those people.

Struck by an odd urge, Sherlock scooted the chair over to John, thanking the wheeled chair. Without a word, he scooped John onto his lap and manoeuvred them at the corpse's feet.

"What do you notice about these?" he asked, letting John settle.

"Blisters?" John asked, laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Does that mean he has bad shoes on?"

"Or that he walks a lot," Sherlock pointed to the blister on the heel. "What types of shoes do you think he would be wearing?"

John's shifted to look up at him. "Um… uncomfortable ones?"

"Such as?"

"Not trainers…" John looked pensive for a moment. "School shoes?" he asked with a cheeky grin.

"Close," Sherlock traced the blister. "A slight heel here would indicate dress shoes, but if someone pays for dress shoes they usually try to get comfortable ones as well. That implies he didn't want to spend money on the shoe so it was probably part of a uniform, the minimum amount of money spent."

"Who would wear those?" John pulled a face, "Who'd have a job like that?"

"Waiters, concierges-"

"What's that?"

"Doormen; butlers; hotel staff; those in the service industry." Sherlock stared, his mind racing towards the answer.

John poked at the foot, his finger so oddly small compared to Sherlock's. "I don't think I want to be one of those," John said thoughtfully. "I hate wearing those shoes."

It startled him back to the present and Sherlock smirked pressing a kiss to John's hair. When he looked up, Molly was staring at him, stunned.

An odd feeling of…annoyance swept him. It was hard to tell if it was embarrassment at being caught with John or whether it was frustration that everyone seemed to think it was so strange that he would spend time with his child.

"Coffee?" he snapped at her. In his lap, John turned in confusion to peer up at Sherlock, startled.

"Oh," she held out the mug. "Two sugars?"

Wonders would never cease. After five months she was finally getting the hang of it. As she stepped over, John darted out of his lap and peered cautiously at the face.

"That's gross," John complained dancing back and forth.

Again.

* * *

He needed to see the crime scene. Annoyingly Anderson was still there, doing something unconstructive in the kitchen of the tiny little house in Bethnal Green.

"Oh for God's sake," Anderson muttered at the sight of him. "Why are you here?"

Sherlock swept through and immediately went down to his knees to look under the cabinets. "Have you looked down here?"

"Do I look like the maid?"

Sherlock looked up. "Apologies; I idiotically mistook you for a competent worker?"

Anderson sneered down at him. As he looked back up Sherlock could see the moment he clocked John lingering in the doorway. A blink of surprise and then a gawp of confusion; Anderson's typical state, surely?

"You!" Anderson snapped. "Get out-"

Sherlock glared up and back at John who was looking unsure. "He's mine," he said. "Stay," he pointed at John.

Obediently, John stayed, though he didn't look comfortable.

"Yours?" Anderson scowled. "Your what?"

Good god, what was the man's purpose in being? "Child," he said, pained beyond belief, turning back to the gap, satisfied that John wasn't about to flee. "What else would he be?"

"You have a…who would give you a child?" Anderson asked, sounding utterly baffled.

"Natural selection," Sherlock replied. "He just spontaneously appeared."

Anderson clearly couldn't decide what to do with that. He just kept gazing at the pair of them as if an answer would appear.

Much like his attitude to forensics.

There, the plastic tube that one put sherbet in. The murder weapon.

"He doesn't look like yours," Anderson announced, oblivious to the fact that Sherlock had found what he was missing.

Sherlock stood in one move. "Your point?"

It was amusing to see Anderson struggle.

"Bag," Sherlock clicked his fingers. When Anderson decided to ignore him and scoff, turning back to the sink.

Really? What use was the sink going to be? Sherlock reached over for an evidence bag, dropping the straw in.

John still hadn't stepped foot into the room. Turning to him, Sherlock watched his son eye Anderson cautiously. Then his eyes slid to the packed lunch on the table.

Ridiculous man.

* * *

It was only after returning to Scotland Yard and denouncing the idiot still rooting around the sink as incompetent, that the thought occurred.

They hadn't eaten.

He stopped still on the street and John continued a few paces before he realised Sherlock had stopped.

"What? Did you get it wrong?" John asked curiously.

Wrong? "I don't get things wrong," Sherlock snapped. "I occasionally miss something, but that's lack of data. I am not wrong."

John threw up his hands and muttered something under his breath.

"You haven't eaten," Sherlock frowned at him.

"No," John cocked his head to the side. "I've been with you all day."

"I…" Sherlock looked around. "You didn't tell me."

Those dark blue eyes narrowed. "I've been with you," John repeated, as if Sherlock were stupid.

"I have better things to think about," Sherlock dismissed.

"I know," John replied. "I didn't want to annoy you."

That was oddly painful. "I didn't mean…you shouldn't…" This was intolerable; he never floundered.

John stared, waiting.

"I forget," Sherlock said slowly, stepping forward. "I forget people get hungry. You should tell me when you need food-"

"But then you'd take me home," John said quietly. "And I wanted to stay with you."

No-one said that. No-one ever said that. Unsure what to do with that, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"It was a four," Sherlock said eventually. "I can have lunch for anything under a six."

"Oh…" John scuffed his shoe on the pavement. "I didn't know what number it was. Or that rule," he added, sounding sheepish about his lack of knowledge. As if Sherlock's code was a worldwide phenomenon.

Which it should be.

"Come along," Sherlock turned on his heel. "We've solved the case. We'll have some food now."

John grinned and nodded. "And dessert?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he would dare take the boy somewhere without. Hardly a sane idea.


	10. Are you forgetting something?

**Are you forgetting something?**

Chapter Summary: Sherlock panics upon realising what time of the year is approaching

* * *

**21****st**** December 2005**

When he was older he wanted to have long legs like Sherlock so he could stride across the street easily. As it was, John could feel himself almost jogging to catch up.

He was starving. He'd even eat the vegetables without hesitation at this rate! His stomach growled in agreement as they walked past yet another café. But Sherlock seemed to ignore them all, tapping away at his phone.

In fact, John wasn't entirely sure that Sherlock remembered where they were going. It wasn't as if he was the best at keeping track of normal things. Eyeing him to work out just how focused on the phone Sherlock was, John side stepped, glancing down one of the streets to the market stalls with thick loaves of bread and ruby red pots of jam.

It would be so easy to just-

A hand yanked at his coat as Sherlock circled him and then gently pushed John to walk in front of him. "Must we have this conversation for the fourteenth time this week?"

"I just…I was going to grab something to eat," John said as Sherlock annoyingly seemed to steer him through the crowds with one hand on his shoulder. A glance behind showed that Sherlock was barely looking up from his phone.

That was kinda cool.

"I don't care what clever phrase you come up with," Sherlock scolded. "You do not steal food when I am walking you to get fed."

Walking him to get fed? John screwed up his nose. Did he look like a flaming zoo animal? He tried to turn to object but Sherlock's grip on his shoulder was like iron.

"Not a pet," John muttered.

"No, but there seems to be a remarkable correlation between pets and children," Sherlock replied absently.

Hey!

John glared at anyone who walked by, sulking at the idea. "So what, this is you taking me out for a walk?" he complained.

"Of course it is. You are walking are you not?" Sherlock sounded curious. "I fail to see your complaint. Exercise is good for you. You will not be one of those children that has to be rolled off the sofa clutching various games and sweets."

Like Ollie Brighton. John tried not to snigger in delight.

Then a worrying thought occurred.

"But I can play them right?" John asked, turning on his best persuasive voice. "Games I mean?"

There was a sound as if Sherlock had jammed his hand into a fire. "Those 'games' only serve as entertainment to those who cannot experience what is in the game first hand."

John wriggled around to look at him, but Sherlock kept them walking. "You're gonna let me be an assassin back in the crusades?" John asked doubtfully.

One of the fingers holding his shoulder tapped and then suddenly turned him at a right angle. "I thought you wanted food," Sherlock said, pushing him in gently.

Score! It was the first time ever that he had stumped Sherlock. And the smell coming from the room was amazing.

Italian.

Double score – desserts!

A man exploded from behind the counter and gave Sherlock a big hug, something Sherlock looked pained at. "Sherlock!" the man said (and John was privately disappointed that he didn't speak with a thick Italian accent, but rather a rather typical London one) "How've you been?"

Sherlock nodded. "I need a table for myself and my son."

"Son?"

Suddenly John was fixed with a long look as the man released John. He was being weighed up, John realised suddenly and he narrowed his eyes in response, disliking the scrutiny.

The man let out a booming laugh. "He's got your glare," he said with some delight. "Do you know, your father got me off a murder charge? I'd have gone to prison if it weren't for him."

"You did go to prison," Sherlock corrected.

"Only for two years." The man seemed chuffed to pieces about it. "Good man your Dad."

John smiled weakly as Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to imagine the look on Sherlock's face if he ever used the 'D' word.

"Over here," the man led them to a table. "Whatever you and your lad want. It's on the house."

Free food? Free food that the restaurant knew was free food?

How the hell had Sherlock managed to swing that one?

"You got him off a murder charge?" John asked curiously as the man walked away.

"Hmm?" Sherlock blinked at him and then look back at the man's retreating back. "Oh, he was stealing car parts in another part of the city. Oddest reaction I've ever had to a reduced jail sentence," he seemed to shake it off. "Angelo has since been rather enthusiastic in showing his gratitude."

John nodded thoughtfully. "You can do that?" he asked slowly, tracing the lines on the menu. "Get people off of murder charges?"

Opposite him, Sherlock paused properly and stopped texting.

"He was innocent," Sherlock said eventually.

Yeah, John sighed inwardly. That usually made a difference.

Sherlock looked back down, then something seemed to catch his eye and he frowned over John's head. Curious, John turned.

"What?"

"There are decorations," Sherlock sounded baffled. "Why are there decorations? They're awful."

John peered around. Other than the Christmas stuff, it all seemed pretty plain. "What decorations?"

Sherlock made a strangled noise. "How can you miss them? Those," he waved a hand at the tinsel. "Bright things."

"The Christmas decorations?"

Sherlock stared at him, then up, then muttered something under his breath. "And when is the…when is Christmas?"

"Friday," John stared at him. Sherlock was the cleverest person he'd ever met and yet he really could be thick. They'd even talked about the decorations earlier.

Maybe he really hadn't been paying attention to John. The thought made him want to squirm and, when he looked up, there was the stare again. "And…" Sherlock looked as if he were squirming. "How…informed are you about Father Christmas?"

John shifted; trying to work out what would work best to his advantage. "How do you mean?" he hedged.

Sherlock leaned forward, pale eyes searching him. "Good try," he announced, sitting back with a relieved look on his face.

How did he do that? John hissed in annoyance and flipped his menu up to hide from Sherlock's all seeing gaze. Even Mum would have struggled to tell when he was fibbing.

"So," John dipped his eyes to the desserts, trying to pick that first. "What do you want for Christmas?"

"Is that meant to be a subtle way of letting me know you expect presents?" Sherlock snapped.

John sunk down in the chair, his view of Sherlock blocked by the menu. From behind it, he could hear a long low sigh before the menu was pulled away and laid flat upon the table. John stared at it, not entirely sure he wanted to look at Sherlock and see the expression on his face, whatever it was.

The silence was unending, made worse by the fact that John wouldn't look up to gauge what Sherlock was thinking. Shifting uncomfortably John narrowed his stare at a faint mark at the table.

"Sorry," he said. Anything to end the silence.

"Have you picked what you want to eat?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John nodded.

* * *

**22****nd**** December 2005**

Anna did not look happy to see him.

"I'm ruining it," Sherlock announced, throwing himself into the seat with an air even he could admit was petulant. "What am I meant to do with him?"

The look he received was not pleasant. "Where is he at the moment?" she asked, folding her arms.

"At home. Baking with the landlady." Thank God for Mrs Hudson. "It's Christmas. You didn't remind me it was Christmas."

"He's not in school," Anna said with the same glare John had given him, "because it's-"

"Yes, I gathered," Sherlock leaned forward. "I simply have never found the information to be particularly relevant until now."

"So you forgot Christmas?" Anna breathed in frustration. "For fuck sakes-"

"He knows that Father Christmas is a myth?" Please say he hadn't got that wrong. At least he hadn't said it to the boy-

"Of course he knows," Anna snapped. "He's a ten year old who grew up far too quickly. I barely managed to keep it up when he was six."

"And presents?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. "What am I meant to do with them?"

"Give them to him," was the biting response.

"And…" Sherlock shifted. "What am I meant to get him?"

"He's a ten year old boy," Anna said with some disbelief. "Games, dvds, footballs, sports things. Chocolate. Gadgets, disgusting slimy things that stick to everything. They aren't hard to please."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back. "He apologised to me for asking for presents."

"And what did you say in response?"

There was danger here. Warily, Sherlock lowered his head and eyed Anna up. "I asked him if he had picked what he was going to have from the menu."

Anna stared and then shook her head and looked away.

"Would you not just-"

"No," she said firmly. "I don't want him to see me in here."

"That is an idiotic notion," Sherlock leaned forward. "He knows where you are, he's stood outside the building enough times. Our son isn't stupid."

"He'll cling on to me," Anna shook her head again. "He needs to learn to…" She glared at him. "Tolerate you."

Sherlock glared. "It is not a competition," he said prissily.

"No," Anna agreed in a far too smug tone for Sherlock's comfort. "At least not a close one. I at least remembered Christmas for the past ten years."

Sherlock let out a hissed sigh.

"You do know you need to do this all again in February for his birthday."

"How droll," Sherlock commented. "But out of the two of us, I wasn't the one who got mixed up in something over my head and then allowed his arm to be broken."

"No, you just walked away from him and gave them the opening to do it," Anna snarled at him.

He faltered at that and looked away, an odd unsettled feeling rising in his chest.

"John hates Christmas cake," Anna said into their thick silence. "He doesn't like marzipan and the cake is too bitter without it. He'll scoff down mince pies though. And he will eat a rather terrifying amount of Christmas dinner. He'll pretend to hate the parsnips and Brussels sprouts but that's because he thinks he shouldn't like them when in fact he does. He'll eat Christmas pudding but anything sweeter and with more chocolate would be better.

"He likes playing football and rugby. The trainers I got him last year are likely too small and he will be starting secondary school next year where there will be more clubs. Look into it and look into some classes that might help. You will be encouraging him to joining clubs," Anna said in an oddly threatening tone. "He needs some normality in his life. Therefore anything that might be practical for those things would be useful to buy."

Good god the list was never ending.

"He needs some fun things too." Anna continued with more enthusiasm than he'd seen from her in a while. "Novelty chocolate is always a good socking filler-"

"You said he knew that Santa thing is a myth," Sherlock protested.

"He's ten." Anna said firmly. "Stockings are useful. You can dump all kinds of crap in there – new pencils, chocolate coins, gloves, anything with a superhero brand or a footballer's name."

It sounded as if he was required to remember all this. No wonder most people didn't have space in their heads for important things.

No, that didn't sound right.

Useful things?

Nor did that.

Work related things?

"Are you listening?" Anna asked, snapping her fingers at him. A hideous gesture and Sherlock sneered at it.

"Yes," he shifted in the chair. "There's hardly anything else that's interesting to do in here."

"Are you sure you're raising John or is it the other way around?" Anna ran a hand through her hair.

"I feed him."

"Well done," Anna sighed sarcastically.

Inwardly groaning, Sherlock leaned back. "Presents," he sighed. "Can I just give them to him a bag?"

"Wrap them," Anna said firmly. "Or get your mother to wrap them."

As if that was going to happen, especially after what had happened last time he had seen them. "Mrs Hudson will."

"Mrs Hudson?"

"The landlady. I ensured her husband was executed for her. She owes me a few favours."

Anna gave him a look of pure disdain, "And that's who you have watching my son."

"Yes," Sherlock lifted his chin arrogantly. "I didn't have your ease of access to the class of criminal John is used to." He purposefully sprawled out, relaxed. "No prostitutes hanging around to baby-sit or thugs to swap saliva with in the local club."

"We were dating," Anna hissed. "I wasn't…" she looked over at a guard and then drew back, clearly trying to calm herself. "I'd never have bought John along for that-"

"But you'd leave him with a street walker?"

"Street walker?" Anna stared at him in disbelief, "What? Am I talking to Mycroft or something?"

"Do not change the-"

"I did it when I was desperate. When that was the best option," Anna snarled. "You want to get all high and mighty on me then fine, but if we'd gone your way we wouldn't have a son to argue over."

"I don't understand why you never came to me," Sherlock muttered, slowly pulling in on himself, uncomfortable with the idea.

"I'm a thief, a con artist, a liar." Anna shrugged. "Didn't really need to add the druggie dad to it, did I?"

"Ah," Sherlock shifted. "You heard about that?"

Anna nodded.

"Does John know?"

"No," Anna sighed. "No, but he'll pick up on it quick if you slip." She let out a tight breath and fiddled with a scrape in the table, much like John had earlier. She let out a bitter laugh. "God, he is going to be so fucked up isn't he?" she muttered.

"Normal is boring," Sherlock said quietly, not at all sure what to do with her sudden change of mood. Give him a fight any day of the week over this.

"Normal is safe," Anna corrected. "I don't want anything else for him but that."

Privately, Sherlock had a feeling it was far too late for that. "Normal and safe is seeing your mother at Christmas," he said slowly.

Anna looked up at him with a glare, searching him for something before she nodded. "Fine," she said. "May as well make it a visit when it's not so depressing," she said, making a vague wave at the Christmas poster stuck on the wall.

* * *

The place reeked of mince pies when he got back in. They were upstairs and, at his reluctant request, Mrs Hudson had helped John to decorate the flat.

A little bit.

John's room. And a tree in the living room. Sherlock was relatively sure that a tree was important when children were John's age. Thankfully, compared to some that he had walked by (and part of him fervently wished he could have continued to ignore the Christmas idiocy given how awful some 'decorations' were) the tree was muted and didn't make his eyes sore from a glance.

He stared at the thing, thinking almost longingly of last year when he had successfully managed to ignore both Christmas and his entire family.

Well, at least this year he had provided a grandchild. And given him to them every Sunday.

"Is it okay?" John asked, sounding a little nervous as he suddenly appeared. His jumper was covered in flour and his cheeks flushed from the heat of the oven.

"Acceptable," Sherlock nodded. "Be careful when you visit my parents. Their tree would be seen by a blind man given how much rubbish it has on it."

There was a flicker of excitement in John's eyes. "Really?"

"Yes. And hideously expensive." Sherlock stared at their tree, remembering how much he had hated the fact that he couldn't touch the decorations in case they fell. "I imagine by now they will have invested in a glass shield to protect it."

The thin shoulders drooped in disappointment. "Oh," John muttered.

Sherlock didn't quite know what it was about this disheartened expression that made him want to squirm each and every time it appeared on John's face. "Here," he said, thrusting the bag at John quickly. "I believe it should go up somewhere."

With a wariness Sherlock approved of, John peered in and then blinked in surprise. "A Christmas stocking?" he asked, sounding bewildered. "But I told you-"

"If you can't jump on the universal con all children enter into then you are no son of mine," Sherlock muttered. "Or your mother's for that matter," he added.

John pulled the stocking out and glanced between it and Sherlock. "Bit small," he said after a moment with a cheeky grin on his face. "Santa's scrimping this year."

Sherlock watched him. Behind the grin there was still a lurking hesitation.

"You could of course always mention to Mycroft that you aren't sure Father Christmas will visit." Sherlock leaned against the back of the sofa. "I imagine the message would be passed on to your grandparents. You may as well drain every last drop of guilt fuelled presents before they revert to their natural judgemental states."

John seemed to be weighing that up. "Would it be fancy things?" he asked carefully.

"Probably. You could sell them and make a fortune."

"And buy an x-box?" John asked with glee.

"Yes. No," Sherlock panicked, standing. "No, none of that-"

"But it'll be my money," John argued.

"Or," Mrs Hudson said, standing in the doorway with a frown. "You could always make a Christmas list."

John cocked his head and looked questioningly at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"You make a list of the things you would like Father Christmas to buy you."

John's eyes lit up. "Seriously? Mum would always just keep what she thought I'd like. It's why she'd start looking early."

Why was that not surprising?

John dashed off, hunting down a pen and a spare envelope that Sherlock had tossed against the wall earlier in a fit of pique.

"Show me that list before you take it to Mycroft," Sherlock said suddenly. "Knowing him he'll encourage loud noisy things just to annoy me."

John nodded as he dashed off.

"Oh," Mrs Hudson shook her head at him. "You daft boy; what on earth makes you think there will be anything quiet on that list?"

With some horror, Sherlock glared at her. "I blame you for this," he huffed. "And when he makes too much noise, I will not make him apologise."

Mrs Hudson smiled, leaned forward and patted him on the cheek. "As if he'd ever be louder than you," she said sweetly.


	11. Lies Our Parents Tell Us

**Lies our parents tell us**

Chapter Summary: John visits family over Christmas

* * *

**Wednesday 23rd December 2005**

It was going a little better than last time. At least this time he wasn't drowning in tea and trying that disgusting fruit stuff.

But it was really quiet. Really, really quiet which made the fancy looking clock on the mantelpiece ticked really loudly. In his seat, John tried desperately not to squirm.

If he was being honest, he guessed Mycroft wasn't as bad as he'd thought he was. He seemed to be the one calming everyone else down half the time. As posh and uptight as he seemed, John was pretty sure he wouldn't suddenly snap and it seemed as if Mycroft didn't disapprove of him as much as he had.

Still, he held his breath as Mycroft's eyes flickered over the letter again and then up at John. There was a glint in his cool eyes that was way too much like Sherlock's when he was onto something.

"Has your father seen this?"

John shook his head. "He got a case Tuesday morning," John explained with a shrug.

There was a nod and the eerily calm gaze lowered once more.

"Is there something wrong with it?" John asked, craning his neck to peer at the letter he had written with his Christmas list.

Mycroft tilted his head and seemed to frown over his answer. "It's unusual," he said finally. "I believe the point of this is to put what you want on the list."

"I did," John pointed at the three things. "But Mrs Hudson told me it should be half a page and I'd already decided what I wanted."

"So you have asked for gifts for others?" Mycroft asked slowly.

"Yeah." Sherlock's stupid no thieving role sucked. John had no idea how he was meant to get presents for people, especially for his Mum. The list had seemed like the perfect answer.

A rather long sigh came from Mycroft and he actually pinched the bridge of his nose. "I will sort these out," he said finally. "Write another Christmas list."

"But if Santa can bring them-"

The look he received was icy. "Do you honestly believe me to be that gullible?" Mycroft asked, sounding oddly put out. "Or that you need to lie to procure presents?"

Great, another stupid word to look up.

"Believe me," Mycroft continued. "You could ask for anything and my parents would buy it for you. I wouldn't be surprised of my mother hasn't filled up a room in preparation for your every whim. There is no need to lie about still believing in Father Christmas."

Oh.

"You know those are really expensive though?" he asked feeling a nudge of guilt as he looked at his three things. "I can change-"

Mycroft held up a hand as if pained. "My mother likely spends more on face cream," he said with a sigh.

Who the hell would choose face cream over an x-box?

They were all so weird.

Silence started again as they both sat awkwardly.

"Sherlock has a case?"

John nodded, still put out by it. "He said it was too gory for me to see," John sulked. "It'd been in the Thames. Molly reckons the bodies get really bloated and floppy, like a dead fish," he said with some longing. "Nobody else at school would have seen a body like that."

Mycroft stared and then shook his head. "How…responsible of my brother," he said, sounding a little odd about it.

John shrugged. A tiny part of him had been a bit relieved that he wouldn't see it, but he would die before he admitted that. "I could handle it," he boasted.

A twitch of a smile crossed Mycroft's usually solemn face. "It's strange how much of my brother I can now see in you," he said, leaning back as if triumphant of something. "The Sherlock bravado and belief that he can and should be included in everything."

Unsure if he was being complimented or not, John shrugged again. "He likes this case," John said eventually, not sure what else to say.

"And you? Did you enjoy the case on Monday?"

Eager, John nodded. "It was brilliant," he said with glee. "Sherlock solved it like a magician."

Though Sherlock had not appreciated that comparison when John had told him. In fact he had looked vaguely insulted by it.

"You enjoyed spending time with him?"

"Yeah," John said and then hesitated. "I mean…" he floundered; worried that he had sounded too enthusiastic. Uncomfortable, he looked at the desk, careful not to make eye contact. "Better than staying at home," he remedied.

A solitary finger started to tap the desk slowly. "And dinner afterwards?" Mycroft asked.

"Pizza," John grinned. "Sherlock got us a meal for free. And they knew about it," he added with some awe. "They like him, he helped them," he added, trying to imagine what it would be like to have people that impressed that they'd choose to give away things.

"You had fun?" Mycroft pressed.

John glanced up with a frown. It wasn't hard to tell that Mycroft was looking for something; John had heard that expression all too often, especially when dealing with the old bill.

"Yeah?" he said, trying to work out what Mycroft wanted him to say.

Mycroft's face flickered with something and he nodded.

And it was time for silence again, John thought, swinging his legs back and forth under the chair.

* * *

"A word."

"I have already allowed you to talk to my son for an hour, what more do you want?" Sherlock complained, "I have a case, I do not have time to traipse over London and then spend time listening to your dull story about sharpening pencils, or whatever it is you do while spying on half the country."

"You didn't see John's list?"

Oh, that. "If you buy him anything excessively annoying I will find a way to ensure that it-"

"He made a list of things he wanted bought as presents for people."

Three times Sherlock attempted to form a reply, completely lost as to what the correct response to that should be. "He wrote what he wanted as well-"

"Three things." Mycroft frowned. "That isn't normal-"

The second Sherlock heard the word he hissed in annoyance. "Normal is not an indicator of being correct."

"Nor is abnormal always something to take pride and delight in," Mycroft replied quietly.

Sherlock curled his lip in a sneer. "My sympathies are with John," he said, "For listening to your pathetic, pompous drivel for an hour. Still, at least I can be assured that this time he won't have caffeine poisoning."

Seeming unimpressed with the slur, Mycroft simply sighed. "I was rather hoping you were starting to put John's needs above your self-indulgent attitude. But of course, it is far more important to deride my opinion than consider your son's well-being."

He would rather have hot pokers shoved in his eye than admit Mycroft might have the smallest of almost correct intuition. "I'm being self-indulgent? I am not the one insisting on this contact. My son would do better not watching us all tear each other to shreds," Sherlock announced, wrapping a hand around the door handle to rescue John from Mycroft's PA. "Yet you hang on to your petty need to be powerful and in control and put that before him. Do not lecture me."

"He isn't my son," Mycroft pointed out calmly.

"And aren't we all glad for that," Sherlock snarled as he slammed the door behind him.

* * *

"Are you mad?"

"Depends on your definition," Sherlock said as he flagged down a taxi outside of Mycroft's office. "Angry yes, insane no. I was tested."

John giggled, then sobered when he seemed to realise Sherlock wasn't joking. "You were tested?"

"Mm," Sherlock nodded absently. "I scored far better than that peremptory, pencil pushing, portly bromidic addle-pate," he snarled as he got in the car.

When he looked back, John was staring at him with a look of trepidation that was mixed with a stunned and confused look. "When you say better…" he asked hesitantly.

"I was the sane one." Sherlock tried to restrain the amused smile, startled as to how quickly he was slipping out of his bad mood. "Just shows you how useless the vetting system is for the British government."

John nodded slowly as he got in to the taxi, taking the seat facing Sherlock with all the enthusiasm only a child musters for riding in a taxi backwards. "You know when you get really annoyed you start getting really creative with your insults," John said slowly.

Yes. It used to annoy his room-mates. "Did you recognise any?" he asked.

"Pencil pushing?" John said with a hopeful shrug that was oddly endearing. "Dunno about the rest. Isn't portly a type of grandfather?"

Sherlock snorted, "It means fat. Like the fat old men that eat rich food and drink expensive alcohol. That's likely why you are confused."

John nodded and looked away, a strange expression on his face that this time Sherlock knew the reason behind.

"Unfortunately I have used it far too often on Nigel Watson," Sherlock sighed dramatically, even for him. "I'll write you a list of words he'll never fathom the meaning of when we get back."

John turned his head back to Sherlock. Instead of the cheeky grin Sherlock had been hoping for, he was met with a worried look. "I don't want to see him," John said quickly, his voice far too nervous.

"You won't," Sherlock assured him, incredulous at himself even as he said it. He might be gifted in many ways but ensuring John never bumped into Nigel was not a feasible promise to make. "But should I ever feel the urge to scream down the phone at him, it might make you feel better about the situation if you knew what I was saying."

It fell flat again. John merely shot him a strained smile and nodded, looking back out of the window.

Maybe he would feel better by the end of the day.

* * *

It was a sign of how lost in his thoughts his son was that he didn't even realise where they were going until they were through the gates.

Sherlock could see the moment John realised. His entire back straightened and he turned to look at Sherlock with the eagerness of a puppy promised its first walk. In fact John looked so desperate that he just stared at Sherlock hopefully without saying a word.

"Despite your Christmas list ideas, I still believe this would be most gratefully received by your mother," Sherlock said.

And was completely unprepared for the launched hug. Honestly, how had the boy found the propulsion in their tight space at the back of a black taxi cab to fly at Sherlock like that? Amused, Sherlock stroked John's hair as the thin arms wrapped around him eagerly.

"Thank you," John whispered.

Oddly…hurt by that, Sherlock nodded. It was hardly something John should have to feel he should thank Sherlock for.

Yet another sign he was doing something hideously wrong with his son.

* * *

John displayed another feat of air acrobatics when he spotted his mother in the visiting room. Anna was stronger than she looked when she simply staggered one step back and bent, wrapping her arms around their son.

"Let me see you," Anna murmured, pulling back and crouching down to look up at John. Sherlock watched warily, waiting for the results of her inspection, fully anticipating a scolding as he slid into the seat.

"You've gotten so big?" Anna breathed, her hands catching John's.

Big? The boy seemed smaller and more delicate to Sherlock every single day. But John beamed at the words and seemed to puff up a little in pride. The expression fell off a second later as John suddenly lurched forward, buried his head in Anna's shoulder and curled his hands around her back, clinging to the material there.

"Oh sweetheart," Anna breathed, pulling John closer. Over his shoulder, she looked at Sherlock pleadingly.

He stared back at her blankly. What was he meant to do? This was completely outside his area of expertise. Slowly, and utterly without his biding, his eyes slid to John's shaking shoulders as his son sobbed on Anna.

With a look around (and there were a few watching John) Sherlock hauled himself out of the seat and knelt down behind John. The flicker of shock in Anna's eyes was enough to make him lose his self-consciousness.

Placing a hand on John's back, trying to be as soothing as possible, Sherlock sighed. "Just because she looks awful in that colour does not mean you have to cry about it."

Anna raised an eyebrow, even as her lips curled in amusement. Against her neck, John chuckled weakly and twisted a little to look up at her, as if checking he was allowed to smile at Sherlock's words. Seeing her expression seemed to ease something in John and he sighed. "Want me to pinch some blue ones?" John asked frankly.

Anna laughed; a proper, full throated laugh and pulled John against her. Then, with a kiss to his forehead, she pulled back and sat back up on the chair, shooting a quick look at Sherlock.

Accepting that, for whatever reason she had, Sherlock scooped John up and onto his lap as he returned to his chair.

"So your Dad remembered Christmas," Anna said, her eyes darting between them fondly.

John shook his head, "No," he said with some scorn. "I told him. He didn't even realise when he saw Christmas decorations."

So much for loyalty; he was being sold out for a cheap story. Sherlock glared heavenwards as Anna laughed again.

"But we went on a case," John said, suddenly eager. "I helped," he said and then Sherlock felt him glance up as if to gauge how much Sherlock would back John up on that version of events. "Sort of," John remedied sheepishly.

Sherlock wasn't sure anything that John had done that day could be considered helpful. But he hadn't interfered which put him above and beyond most adults he suffered on a case by case basis.

"Sherlock let me see a body," John added happily. "It was gross."

Anna's eyes narrowed, but she moved past it. "So," she said with a gentle smile. "Tell me everything that you've been up to and I'll tell you how I managed to get extra chocolate pudding on Fridays."

* * *

There was a small drinks machine in the hallway outside of the visiting room that Sherlock sent John to when Anna gave him a look.

"It was a perfectly respectable body to show him for his first corpse," Sherlock defended.

"What? Oh," Anna waved a hand. "From what you've said about your job I'm amazed it took you that long. No. Why does he call you Sherlock?"

That had to be a trick question. Surely he hadn't procreated with a woman that stupid. "It is my name," he said, slowly.

With an eye roll, Anna leaned forward. "Why doesn't he call you Dad?"

That had never occurred to him.

At all.

He referred to John as his son in an off-hand manner whenever he felt like it. Usually just to pointedly use the word 'my'. But not once had John said Dad. Others had said it, and John had never corrected them, but he had never engaged in the use of the word.

"You didn't realise?" Anna asked, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

"No," Sherlock said, suddenly oddly hoarse. "I…No."

Anna shifted, "I…sorry I thought…" she smiled at him reassuringly, "He's never used the word before. It's probably just part of the adjustment."

Sherlock nodded slowly even as his chest felt suddenly numb.

"Got some coke," John announced as he came back.

Both Sherlock and Anna whipped their attention to him in horror and John blinked at them, then held up the can of coca-cola slowly.

Sherlock turned back to Anna and almost slid down the chair, pained.

* * *

John was quiet when they left, sitting without a word in the taxi and then disappeared into his room minutes within getting home.

Sherlock left him to it. Instead, he threw himself into the sofa and glared at the windows.

The word 'dad' had never been used around him. His own father had always been referred to as father, while even the thought of calling his grandfather granddad was absurd. All of his peers while growing up had the same circumstances, there was only a few that might have been different, but then it was only the odd mention as those people had tried to fit in with the rest of them, the dullards.

Father wasn't a word he wanted associated with him. It spoke of discipline and order, of cool glares and an intimidating study. It was a word that had an instant distance in his head. Not a thing he wanted for his relationship with John and so he had dismissed the idea without much thought.

Dad though, that word was…better, if a little strange to think of it being used in association with himself.

But why hadn't John used it? There hadn't even been a hint of it on his lips.

Tilting his head back, Sherlock raised his hands to a point under his chin. Had it never occurred to John to use the word? If so what did that mean about John's thoughts about their relationship?

He lost track of time as he sat there, staring into the darkness.

A sudden spurt of light from the hall made him blink and then John appeared, a lingering shadow in the doorway, radiating hesitancy. Startled and blinking away the spots in his eyes, Sherlock sat up.

John was silent, and it was hard to see his face because the light was behind him.

"Can…can I get some water?" John asked, sounding oddly meek.

Sherlock nodded, and then cleared his throat, suddenly aware John might not spot the head movement. "Of course," he said quietly.

John made an aborted move and then tried again, slinking into the room with a nervousness that didn't help Sherlock's mood. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Sherlock watched John glance at him, strangely skittish.

"Have you been asleep?" Sherlock asked gently.

John shook his head, sticking to the counter. As he turned, Sherlock caught the wobbling chin.

Strange; the last time he had been aware John had been crying in his room, he had hesitated, unsure and battling with unwillingness. This time he didn't even think before he strode across the room and pulled John to him. For a flicker of a second, John resisted the hug and then collapsed against him as if to hide from the world.

He could do that. Suddenly he wanted nothing else but to do that. Picking John up he let his son hide in his neck, tears soaking his shirt. At the feel of them, Sherlock gripped at John harder and sat, arranging John on his lap and letting the boy sob.

"I miss her," John mumbled against his throat. "I want my Mum."

Sherlock rocked him, biting back the urge to point out that he was there. It sounded petty and puerile in his head to point out to John that he had his Dad.

That word, that bloody word wouldn't leave his mind now.

Instead he made soothing sounds that he thought were the correct ones to make.

"Could…" John sniffed, "Could you get her out?"

He'd been looking into it, but Anna's lack of enthusiasm to help and John's own fear about the subject had left him with very little. The nagging worry that he might draw attention back to John hadn't helped.

But suddenly all of that fell away.

If Anna was released she would take John back. She would take him away. And John didn't see him as his Dad yet. Would he even want to see Sherlock if Anna was released? Who would volunteer to be a member of his family after the past few weeks?

No-one with a brain. And his son had a brain, he thought as he pressed a kiss to the damp hair.

He couldn't lose him. Not now.

"No," he said softly. "I can't."

John's shoulders slumped and he buried his head again. Sherlock stared at the wall as he tightened his grip, feeling every breath John took.

Eventually, when John seemed to calm a little and the sobs faded, Sherlock moved to stand and was gratified to find that John shook his head in response.

"Want to stay," John muttered sleepily.

Sherlock nodded. "Good," he replied, pulling him closer. "That's fine."


	12. A Merry Time of Year

**A Merry Time of Year**

Chapter Summary: It's Christmas! (Almost)

* * *

**24****th**** December 2005**

This was impossible.

Sherlock was sat in the flat, surrounded by…things. Things that Mrs Hudson had picked up; in fact, more than that, because the bloody woman had added to his rather purposely specific list. There was wrapping paper, labels, tinsel, cards.

Things. Terrible, terrible, awful things. Things he didn't want to deal with or suffer through. Flicking at a stray piece of silver something, he reached for his phone.

Again.

And again, he pulled away, hissing at the idea, completely lost as to which would be the worst option.

There was an odd urge to lie to John; to create a Christmas and see him wonder, see him have a slight moment of doubt that perhaps, just maybe, there was a Santa Claus.

Ridiculous urge. Why on earth he wanted to encourage John to be naïve and stupid was beyond him. He should just toss the plastic bag at John, nod a greeting at him and bundle him down to Mrs Hudson's, despite his mother's urging to drop John round theirs. Christmas day did not fall on a Sunday and so he was under no obligation.

But the idea of actually doing it was…difficult. All he could imagine was John's face falling; that disappointed look appearing.

Sherlock was becoming worryingly concerned that he would do anything to avoid seeing that look on John's face. Already he was becoming a slave to his paternal instincts.

Surely it was understandable that he didn't want to waste his time wrapping things and writing things or fiddling with it all. The entire debacle would put him in a horrendous mood.

Mrs Hudson had irritatingly refused to help. Why she'd done half the job and then left him to it he had no idea. It was callousness at its very worst.

Which left one person.

Well…that wasn't entirely true. There was always the possibility of breaking Anna out of prison and persuading her to wrap these presents.

It was almost flawless in comparison to the other plan where he called his mother and requested her presence and her wrapping technique. And, of course, his father would feel the need to escort her over and would probably take umbrage at the idea of staying outside and waiting.

As if their last conversation hadn't been indication enough that they could no co-exist in the same room together. Voluntarily asking his parents over? He would rather walk over hot coals, go without murder for a month, stab his own eyeballs out.

Risk John's disappointed face?

He reached for the phone again, and this time managed to pick it up, twisting it in his hands and turning it over and over.

John's face. His parents in the flat.

Which was worse?

* * *

Two hours later he had a brainwave.

_Send your assistant over to wrap things. SH_

_Really? You do not think I may have tasks that are better suited to her skills? MH_

_Such as? Wiping your mouth after dinner? This would be a holiday for her. SH_

_She's gone home. It is Christmas, Sherlock. MH_

Damn.

* * *

Ten minutes later there was a knock at the door. With a despairing glance at the mess, Sherlock lifted himself from the floor and wandered down, opened the door and stared at Mycroft.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, glaring at him.

"You aren't calling our parents?"

Sherlock scowled. "I do not need help," he spat, as if the word was filthy.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and waited. "Would you prefer me to pick up Mother?"

No. Not really. "You're here now," Sherlock conceded. "You may as well attempt to help."

* * *

It was almost funny.

No, strike that. It was funny.

Mycroft, sat in an armchair, trying to manoeuvre paper around the box, was frowning at the puzzle. The man who would manipulate and control delegations, ministers and officials was confused by wrapping paper.

"You're not doing much better," Mycroft frowned. "So I suggest you wipe that look off your face."

Triumphantly, Sherlock held up the one he had managed to do successfully. "There."

"I could always leave."

No. It was bearable trying to do this when Mycroft was doing worse than he was.

"Giving up?"

Mycroft raised his eyes. It reminded Sherlock of when they were children, both too stubborn to ever back down from anything and constantly trying to out-do each other. There was a small smile, as if he was aware of what Sherlock was doing, yet unwilling to admit defeat.

"No murders tonight?"

"No. Everyone is stupid this time of year. There's been nothing interesting for days."

"I thought you had a case on Tuesday."

"It was boring," Sherlock complained, trying to get rid of the cellotape by shaking his hand. "No flair or imagination."

"How dreadful," Mycroft said, the sarcasm only just touching his voice.

"Though granted," Sherlock said, sniffing as he jammed the paper together (just), "The murderer had those qualities in spades compared to the people you deal with every day."

"Obviously I am the most put upon person in the room," Mycroft said, something pulling at his lips.

Well, he did have the misfortune of having to deal with himself every day, Sherlock thought as he tackled another present with wrapping paper that tore far too easily.

"Mother and Father should be back from their engagement," Mycroft said suddenly. "I could always send the presents over to them and collect them again."

"Giving up?"

"Indeed. Watching you smugly smile at me because you can wrap presents is rather…odd."

Sherlock glanced down at what he was doing and dropped it in distaste. "Summon the car," he said. "But I am not going."

"Thankfully," Mycroft muttered. "I fear that would be one step too far for tonight. However, you do know there will likely be some price you are expected to pay?"

Sherlock cast an eye over all he had left to do then slumped and waved a hand in agreement, closing his eyes do he could pretend he hadn't just consented to what would likely amount to be torture.

* * *

It was seven o clock.

John stared at the clock, waiting for the number to change again, curled up in his bed and deliciously warm.

Seven oh one.

He was being stupid, he knew that. If Sherlock could see him now he was mock mercilessly. It was the first time ever that John could remember not wanting to get up on Christmas Day. Mainly because he didn't really know what to expect, what he should hope for, realistically.

Realistically. John snorted into his covers. Realistically, Sherlock wouldn't even know what day this was.

Seven oh two.

He was not a coward, John thought , suddenly feeling stubborn. And if nothing else, there would be a film on downstairs. He could take his covers and snuggle up in front of the television.

It seemed like a good plan. Gathering himself up and rolling the duvet around him until he resembled a misshapen sausage, John carefully made his way down the stairs, wincing at the cold.

And then stopped in confusion at the state of the living room.

There were presents and a stocking, filled with things. And the presents were wrapped. There was even a carrot that had been chewed up messily and an empty glass that looked as if it had contained milk.

John stared, dropping the duvet as he crept forward, stunned.

Either Sherlock had shopped, wrapped and faked Santa Claus' visit or Santa actually existed.

Both seemed bloody unlikely.

Glancing at the kitchen and Sherlock's door, John walked up to the stocking and peered in, raising himself up on his toes to see into the depth of the stocking.

That was really weird; there were loads of things his mum usually had in the stockings.

Utterly confused by this point, John reached out a toe and poked at the glass, rocking it a little off balance. It felt real…

Maybe Mrs Hudson had done it? Except no, she was at her sisters…

Well…maybe they'd lied about that. But Mrs Hudson was rubbish at lying to them.

"Inspecting your hoard?"

John jumped and spun, staring at Sherlock who had suddenly appeared and was leaning against the kitchen wall. It was hard to tell if he'd come from his room or downstairs, but he looked as if he'd been up for a while.

Though John was vaguely sure the man never slept. He was like a robot sometimes.

"I…" John glanced back. "They're wrapped."

"Indeed."

Nothing, he was getting nothing. No help at all to work out whether he was being conned. "It's...good wrapping," John said, watching carefully.

All he saw was scorn, "Well, if one does dedicate their existence to presents one would hope they were good at wrapping."

John took a step forward, mouth pursing as he tried to work out what had happened. Sherlock just looked more and more…happy?

"So you know what day it is?" John asked.

"Indeed. Friday."

No, that wasn't- John watched helplessly as Sherlock picked up the duvet and threw it at him. The second the covers hit him, he giggled, scrambling to find the end so he could peek out at Sherlock from underneath.

"You know this means Santa will get all the credit?" John asked, holding the covers up over his head, as if it were a shelter or a tent.

There. The small flicker of doubt in Sherlock's eyes. "It is his job," Sherlock muttered again, looking peeved.

He'd done this? John dropped the covers to hide his reaction and flailed his way to the sofa trying to get his head round it all.

Sherlock had made an effort for something that wasn't immediately self-serving or crime related?

As he almost crashed into the sofa, John felt the biggest smile suddenly pull at his face. Seconds later a strong grip was lifting him onto the sofa, pushing him down and rearranging the duvet until John's head poked out.

"Here," Sherlock thrust the stocking at him. "Do whatever it is you are meant to do. I wish to see if I can make an improvement to the toaster."

* * *

"Why are we going?" John asked as Sherlock shut the door behind them.

"Because my parents wish to make us all drown in misery and suffering and believe being lectured to is something that all should want at least once a week."

"Right," John pulled a face, flexing his fingers in their new gloves that looked wicked solid. When it next snowed he was going to be the master of snowball fights. "I meant why are you going?"

Sherlock looked suddenly skittish. "Tradition," he said shortly. "I believe you should make an informed decision before you reject it."

Really? That didn't even sound remotely like Sherlock. "But going to church?" John whined. "The vicar will send you to hell within five minutes of the show starting."

Sherlock's lips twitched as they turned a corner. "Service," he corrected. "They call it a service, though your word may be more apt." He looked down at John. "Unless you wish to join me in being condemned to hell within the first five minutes."

"You first," John grinned. "So we're…you know. Sitting with them?" he asked, unsure as to how that was meant to work. Weren't you meant to be silent in a church?

"Yes," Sherlock scowled, his good humour suddenly vanishing. "The joys of Christmas."

John looked away, suddenly dreading the afternoon. It had been such a fun morning as well, just the two of them doing whatever they wanted and Sherlock showing him his latest experiment. John looked up at the sky, wondering just how long they would be stuck in-

Tiny flakes where flying down, getting tangled in the wind and dancing across his vision. Stopping, John stared up as the flakes suddenly picked up speed and started to thicken. Delighted at the sight, he stuck out his tongue, never sure why he felt the need to taste the snow. The flake melted on his tongue, tasting like absolutely nothing. Instead he watched as they fell onto his gloves, spattering the dark blue with white drops that fizzed and melted.

"It's snowing," he called to Sherlock who had continued to walk, muttering under his breath. "Look!"

"Yes I am aware-" Sherlock turned and his voice trailed off as he watched John. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see his father soften slightly.

"Do you think it will settle?" John asked, desperately eager.

Sherlock held out a hand and John ducked forward, letting the large gloved palm settled on the back of his neck reassuringly. "Perhaps," Sherlock said, looking oddly frustrated.

"Do you think there'll be time after church?"

"We shall see."

* * *

His grandmother looked fancy in a deep dark red coat with matching gloves and hat. Her scarf was snowy white and perfectly knotted to fall in a spill of soft looking fabric. His grandfather and Mycroft were sat in their fancy coats, looking for all the world like gentlemen from some boring Victorian drama that the TV always showed this time of year.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock and his grandfather had hardly said two words to each other. Instead they had seemed to silently agree to stay out of each other's way. Separated by the John and Mycroft, they at least seemed to be doing better than they had last time, even though Sherlock was slumped in his usual coat looking like Frankie Martin did when he was sulking after a telling off. His arms were folded and his legs were stretched out as far as the pews would allow, while he scowled at nothing.

John glanced over at his grandparents a few times, half expecting the look or for one of them to snap and start scolding Sherlock but, although they seemed aware of what he was doing, neither seemed as if they were going to say a word.

Well, at least his grandfather did. His grandmother cracked about seven minutes in.

"Must you act like a child?"

"I was under the impression that you felt that was my default state," Sherlock muttered. "Besides, if he were more interesting, I would sit up."

Hi grandmother shot him a doubtful look. "You are setting a terrible example for John," she scolded.

"I know," Sherlock agreed. "Yet still he sits attentively and politely. He's not paying an ounce of attention to me."

John sniggered.

"John," his grandmother scolded.

"Sorry," John mumbled.

"See?" Sherlock complained. "Isn't that atrocious? I certainly never taught him that."

On the other side of John, Mycroft's lips twitched.

"Mycroft! Don't encourage him."

The affronted look on Mycroft's face made John giggle as Mycroft leaned to glare at Bella. "Mother, he is sitting relatively quietly. What more did you want?"

"Manners." John glanced worriedly at his grandmother and blinked as he saw the starts of a smile on her face. A wary glance over at his grandfather showed him to be studying Sherlock carefully and, for once, Sherlock seemed utterly oblivious. His grandfather caught John's gaze by accident and drew in a breath, looking unsure. Then he swallowed as if nervous about something. "One miracle a day dear," his grandfather suggested.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow looking faintly bemused as John tried not to giggle.

"I should have had girls," his grandmother complained, sitting back, a smile still lingering around her mouth.

They settled back but John suddenly couldn't focus on what was being said.

They were almost getting along! He wasn't sure if it was awesome or just plain wrong.

"We're gonna play in the snow after," John whispered to Mycroft who blinked and looked back down at him.

"Ah," Mycroft looked a little lost, as if he had no idea what he was meant to do with that information. "I see."

A little deflated, John turned back to the service suddenly hyper aware of the way Mycroft was staring at him. On his other side, Sherlock had closed his eyes and seemed to be muttering something under his breath.

Someone cleared their throat and John glanced over, suddenly surprised to see his grandfather leaning forward to be seen past Mycroft.

"Go," he mouthed, inclining his head at the door, an oddly gentle look on his face.

Had they done something wrong? John stared at him, frozen. But his grandfather levelled a gentle smile at him and inclined his head at Sherlock.

John turned to Sherlock and nudged him fiercely. "We can go," he hissed in his ear.

Sherlock frowned and, as if suspecting it was some kind of a trap, slowly sat up to lean and look at his father.

The look of startled surprise was kind of cool to see on Sherlock's face. Instantly, Sherlock gripped John's hand and slipped out past Bella who was looking at her husband with an odd expression.

And then they were free, out of the church and into the freezing wind.

"Look," John yelped, seeing how high the snow was getting. Carefully he balanced, trying to make his footprints as clear as possible. "If I'd killed someone, could you catch me from these?"

Sherlock blinked, then snorted in laughter. "I'd be deeply concerned if you killed someone and were then that fastidious about leaving behind your footprints."

"Fastidious?"

Sherlock sighed. "Look it up when we get home."

"Can-" John broke himself off, trying to remember that Sherlock had done loads already. Hunching his shoulders, he kicked at the snow, smiling at the spray and the soft noise it created.

"Can?" Sherlock prompted, falling into step next to him.

"Are we going home now?" John asked.

"I…" Sherlock tilted his head. "You want to go somewhere."

"No." John tried not to look at Sherlock.

"Liar."

Annoyed, John glared up at him. "What is my tell?" he whined, "It's really annoying when you do that."

"It's equally annoying when you attempt to lie to me."

"You'll say no," John shrugged. "It's fine."

They walked in silence for a street or two before Sherlock let out a breath. "You honestly believe I would have an issue with you going to the park around the corner to play in the snow?"

That was…John looked up at him, stunned. "How do you know that?"

"I know you," was the simple reply. "We can stop there on our way back."

"Really?" John asked, trying to keep the wide grin off of his face.

"Yes," Sherlock seemed to fidget as they walked. "I just endured a church service, I can manage the park."

* * *

Watching John at the park had been…decidedly not boring. The boy was a good athlete, a team player who was eager to include people. Bright and quick on his feet with a love for just playing and having fun.

The children had played until the sky grew dark and the adults called them in, a lot of the parents watching in groups with warm drinks or from the windows and balconies overlooking the park. John had seemed over the moon with the Chinese they had for dinner and their demonstrations and discussion about the various methods of picking a lock.

His son was half asleep by the time he got John into bed. He looked terribly young with his hair sticking up at odd angles and his cheeks flushed from the cold and exercise he had done.

It was almost impossible to not pull the covers up and check he was warm enough.

The boy snuggled into the bed and blinked up at him sleepily. "Did you like today?" John asked suddenly.

The answer was surprisingly easy. "Yes," he said shortly.

John nodded and then seemed to hesitate, as if wanting to say something. "Thank you," he whispered after a moment, his eyes barely staying open.

Sherlock leaned down and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Merry Christmas," he said, breathing his son in.

"Mm," came the eloquent response.

Amused, Sherlock carded a hand through John's hair, watching as the tiny features below softened into sleep.

Suddenly the world seemed dull and boring again as John shifted in sleep. There was an insane urge to wake the boy up again, just to keep on talking and keep the world full of colour.

A foolish notion.


	13. Peaceful Times

**Peaceful Times**

Chapter Summary: Sometimes a retreat is better than a battle

Author's Note: This and Chapter eight are the new chapters. The fic has been reworked slightly (apologies for the delay) as I have now decided the time frame. It's not too different if you don't feel like reading it again, but it might help!

Thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter. I have made some adjustments in light of the slight rework so any mistakes left are all mine!

* * *

**25th December 2005 **

"But they could have come back here with us," Bella pointed out as they opened the door, stomping her heels on the step to shake off the snow.

Lucian placed his keys on the rack and turned to her, "Do you really believe Sherlock would have allowed that?"

"Maybe."

It was hope rather than realism that clouded her judgement. Lucian gave her a long look that made her sigh. Shaking off his coat, he hung it upon the hanger in the boiler room and then helped his wife out of hers.

"He looked happy," Bella said longingly. "As he walked out."

"John? He's a ten year old that was about to roll around in the snow. Of course he-" Lucian broke off when he saw her face. "Ah, you meant Sherlock."

"I haven't seen him like that in…" Bella shook her head wistfully.

Lucian hesitated. "Bella…we agreed. One at a time," he said carefully. "You know if we push too hard with Sherlock we'll just push him away." He stepped towards her and smoothed his hands up her arms.

Bella nodded, "I just…it's so hard," she flashed him a rueful smile. "To have him so close…we used to be lucky to see him once a year."

"We'll see him more than that," Lucian said, feeling useless when he simply didn't know what to say in response. Surely she hadn't forgotten last week.

Still, it had been amazing to see how the new attitude could work. John's tentative smile at him had been worth him almost biting through his tongue at Sherlock's attitude.

Bella fixed him with a disapproving look. "I'll make some coffee," she decided, turning suddenly.

Lucian watched her go.

* * *

**27th December**** 2005 (Sunday)**

Bella stared at the place settings, hands fluttering once more. She knew the table was immaculate, perfectly festive without being tacky and yet she couldn't help but fuss, moving things by millimetres as she tried to ignore the fact that, despite Lucian and Mycroft's opinion on the subject, she had set the table for five, rather than four.

They were due to arrive any minute. Mycroft had turned up a little earlier than usual which was lovely and she'd immediately handed him some warmed mulled wine against the cold. He still had no news about a relationship, she thought as she nudged the candle to the left slightly. Both of her sons seemed to have so little interest in the concept. It was starting to seem more and more likely that she'd be doomed to be the only female in the immediate family until John was old enough to date.

At least there were some benefits to having being made a grandmother at the age of forty three. By the time John provided her with great-grandchildren, babies who she could spoil from the start, she would be a good age for it.

Her head shot up when the door bell sounded and she abandoned the minute touches to the table in favour of walking out of the dining room and into the hall, just in time to see Lucian open the door to a rather snow soaked John and an equally snow soaked Sherlock.

"We're late because of your grandson," Sherlock was quick to announce. "Apparently it is scientifically and lawfully impossible to walk past snow and not fire off snowballs."

John looked utterly unrepentant. "You didn't have to…" his brow furrowed. "Retaliate?" he tried the word, glancing up at Sherlock as if to confirm it was correct.

There was a proud twitch of Sherlock's mouth. "Indeed."

They seemed so relaxed, so at ease with each other that Bella's heart soared for her son. Then, just as if someone had flicked a light, Sherlock looked over at them and scowled.

"Six o'clock," he warned, flicking up the collar of his coat imperiously. "So I suggest you explain to the cook the wonders of cooking the stages of the meal at the same time or indeed serving the starters to avoid unpleasant conversations. In this house if you wait fr a good atmosphere you might starve."

He wasn't staying.

He wasn't even tempted.

Instead, Sherlock pushed at John's back gently until the boy was inside the doorway. Instantly, the relaxed air vanished from her grandson and he darted unsure looks at both her ad Lucian, then whirled to look up at Sherlock.

It hurt. They were hardly ogres or cruel. John seemed so wary of them, so…judging almost. It was frustrating; Sherlock hardly allowed them the chance to show him they weren't like that.

Whatever the look John was giving Sherlock made her son look suddenly panicked. His eyes darted between her and John.

"Your mother warned me about that look," Sherlock said to John suddenly. "Do not think purposely trying to manipulate me will work."

John's shoulders slumped and Sherlock looked even more unsure. Then something seemed to firm within him and he clenched his jaw.

"Six o clock," he repeated firmly and turned on his heel.

"In you come," Lucian said sounding gentle. She so rarely heard the tone from him that it made Bella smile, despite everything.

John took what had to be a steadying breath as he looked at them both and jutted his chin in a way that was so Sherlock, it momentarily took her by surprise, then made her suddenly wary of what he was about to do.

But John just swallowed and slowly started to take off his coat, looking determined every second he was doing it.

She was making it worse by staring, she realised. Her grandson seemed nervous enough without her adding to it.

Besides, she needed to remove the place setting and adjust the table accordingly.

* * *

"Mycroft and I were just having a game of chess," Lucian explained as he led a rather stiff shouldered John into the study. "Have you ever played?"

"No," John squinted up at him. "Is that the one with the characters?"

Characters? "It has two Kings, two queens, two bishops, two knights, two rooks and-"

"What's a rook?" John interrupted, then suddenly looked horrified.

"It…" Lucian opened the door, not sure how to process the rapidly changing expressions of his grandson and instead nudged John through. "Why don't you have a look at the board?"

John's hesitancy seemed to vanish when he saw Mycroft. "Are you good at chess?" John asked, wandering over without prompting.

Lucian watched him, oddly…torn. Good manners would suggest that John should greet Mycroft properly, yet there was something heartening about the way that John just relaxed with him. Besides, times had changed. Any lack of 'good manners' was more likely due to their falling popularity and use, rather than John wilfully ignoring them.

"I am," Mycroft said calmly, without pride or humility. "And I believe I am winning," he added, toasting towards Lucian.

John titled his head at the board, seemingly curious. "Are you white or black?" he asked.

"Black," Mycroft said, sipping at the mulled wine.

John darted a glance over at Lucian, as if forcing himself to do so. "Is…" he looked worried again. "Is it hard?"

"To play?" Lucian questioned. "No, not once you memorise the allowed moves. To play against Mycroft?" Lucian sat in the seat opposite his eldest. "I don't believe I've won in four years now."

Mycroft's cheeks coloured a little. "I was ill," he shifted.

"Can Sherlock play?" John asked curiously.

"He can," Lucian hesitated. "Your father isn't the most patient man in the world. He usually loses interest halfway through."

John giggled a little. "Is it long then?"

"It can be," Mycroft acknowledged. "Your father claims he can deduce the outcome of a game within the first ten minutes of a game and therefore can't be bothered to continue."

Something like a challenge leapt into John's eyes. "Can you teach me?" he asked, looking solely at Mycroft.

Lucian sat back, trying to content himself with being able to watch Mycroft teach John. But Mycroft shook his head.

"I am a poor teacher," he said softly. "But your grandfather taught both me and your father. I would suggest he is the best one to learn from."

Slowly, John looked over at Lucian, as if weighing up the merits of the idea.

"Coward," Mycroft said so quietly Lucian almost didn't hear.

"Mycroft-" Lucian started to scold, the faltered when John suddenly glared at Mycroft and wandered over to Lucian, completely missing the satisfied, smug smile that crossed Mycroft's face when John moved.

"Which one's the rook?" John asked, peering determinedly at the table.

* * *

It would have been interesting to have seen what his parents had intended to serve the last Sunday they had gathered for dinner, Mycroft thought. His parents seemed to have learned at some point and had provided simpler food more appropriate to John's budding palate.

Whether that was simple realisation from John's face the first time or guilt from the second he would never know.

"Mum bought this before," John announced, tucking into the pate and toast. "She used to put apple and salad cream with it."

God help them all if John inherited Anna's rather odd sounding taste in food.

"Really?" his mother asked, trying not to sound too disgusted. "I've never tried that."

"We had marmite and philadelphia on toast as well," John said. "Oh and Peanut butter with philadelphia, apple and-"

"Did you want that instead?" his mother asked, suddenly looking nervous.

John blinked at her. "No," he said, sounding subdued. "This is good."

Mycroft saw his mother wince at herself and look utterly hopeless. "So, some odd combinations," she said, trying to get the conversation back again. But this time John just nodded warily.

"Did you enjoy your afternoon in the snow on Christmas?" his father tried.

"Yeah." John shoulders hunched even further, as if he were waiting for a rebuke. Mycroft could see his father visibly swallow down what was likely a conditioned response to Sherlock's intentionally petulant one word answers.

"Did Sherlock ever tell you about the time he fancied himself to be Frankenstein?"

"The monster?" John asked, pulling a face.

Good God they needed to educate the child. "The doctor," Mycroft corrected, trying to keep his tone from being scornful. "The monster didn't have a name. It was a monster."

John blinked at that. "Then why are the masks called Frankenstein masks at Halloween?"

"Because consumers are pandered to."

"Huh?" John looked baffled.

"It…it's a discussion for another day," his father suddenly helped out. "But when he was about your age, Sherlock thought he should attempt to see if the resurrection idea had any merit."

John muttered the words under his breath, brow furrowed. "He…" Suddenly he sniggered. "He tried to bring something back to life?"

"A dead bird I believe?" his father looked at his mother, who nodded, wincing at the memory.

"A raven," Mycroft added. "There didn't seem to be any injuries, which was why Sherlock believed it to be the perfect specimen. He had it on the table and had detached the wires from the kettle and the toaster."

John's eyes lit up. "Seriously?"

"How he didn't electrocute himself I have no idea," his mother frowned.

"Wasn't he using the oven gloves?" his father snorted with a lot more fondness than Mycroft would have expected.

Apparently nostalgia really did mellow people.

"Ah yes," his mother shook her head. "My beautiful oven gloves from Edinburgh," she said mournfully.

"You can imagine the smell," Mycroft said shaking his head, "From electrocuting this dead bird over and over again."

John made a sound that was half disgust and half delight.

"He did attempt an autopsy," Mycroft added. "But it was the point when he reached for a knife in the kitchen block that we all snapped out of the horrified stupor and stopped him."

John started to giggle, which suddenly turned into a full bellied laugh. The sound of it started his parents off.

It was possibly the first time in recent memory that the topic of Sherlock had eased the tension rather than created it.

"So," his mother leaned forward eagerly, "What are you doing for New Year's Eve?"

* * *

It was like coaxing a wild animal. John was so close now as he stared at the pieces. They were all sat in the living room, but Mycroft had found an old, cheap chessboard that he and Sherlock had used as children and set it out for John to practise.

"There?" John asked looking up at him as he set the knight down.

"What will happen if you leave it there?"

John looked down at the board, terrifyingly intent as he narrowed his eyes.

It had been intuitive for both Sherlock and Mycroft, when they had been taught to play, to think through not just the next moves, but the ones after that and the game as a whole. It wasn't the same for John (that much was clear) but he was trying.

"It's safe."

"This time," Lucian nodded. "Leave it there and keep an eye on what happens to it."

His grandson nodded, bowed head catching the light from the fire. It was heartening to see his youngest son in the boy; to see the head tilt and the narrowed gaze. And there were touches on Anna too, not just in the colouring, but in the slight wry smile that was tugging at his mouth and the wrinkled nose when something amused or confused him.

The boy was closer to Lucian than he'd ever been before and was relaxed. At some point in the past hour, he had lost the wary glances and hesitations. Closer to the fire, Lucian could see Bella glance in their direction every so often, a smile on her face.

The doorbell went, disturbing the peace.

Six o'clock.

"I'll get it," Mycroft stood. "Finish the lesson."

* * *

"It's six," Sherlock announced when Mycroft opened the door. "Time's up. Give him back."

"He's upstairs, playing chess."

Sherlock stared at him as if he were talking another language. Then an expression of jealously reared up, furious and ugly.

"He's my son," Sherlock lifted his chin. "I will teach him."

"If you'd been here you could have explained that." Mycroft replied easily. "Or did it not occur to you that without you here to 'defend your claim' he might actually start to form a relationship with them."

The strangest expression passed across his brother's face as he walked in and made his way to the living room. Closing the door, Mycroft followed him in.

"Look," John glanced up eagerly as Sherlock entered the lounge. "I can aim a knight!"

Sherlock's eyes wouldn't stop moving as he looked at everything and everyone in the room before settling on John.

"Where's your coat?" he asked.

"Uh-"

"We'll go and find it," his mother said, standing. "Come on, John."

With a worried look at all of them, John let himself be led out.

"He's happy-" their father started to defend.

"Yes. I'm not blind," Sherlock shook his head. "I simply wish to stick to the time frame."

Sherlock hated sticking to plans.

And there seemed to be a distinct lack of sulking or temper tantrum.

"So," Mycroft cleared his throat. "Will you be joining us next Sunday?"

"No."

"He'll teach John chess again," Mycroft threatened. But Sherlock fixed him with a bored look and rolled his eyes just as John reappeared.

"Um," John paused, back pressed against Sherlock as he looked up at them. "Thanks for teaching me how to play."

"It was my pleasure," their father said. "Perhaps we can continue it again next time?"

John nodded, a shy smile on his face before he looked over at Mycroft.

"I will see you Wednesday," he said, as much to remind Sherlock as to remind John.

"How wonderful; you've now progressed to being as useful as a calendar," Sherlock snapped. "Say goodbye John."

John waved at them briefly before allowing Sherlock to lead him out.

* * *

They'd been fine.

They'd been happy.

Part of Sherlock had hoped to get a phone call five minutes after dropping John off to admit that they were having a row or had upset John. Then they could call the whole foolish Sunday obligation off and that would be that.

He hadn't expected to walk into a perfectly domestic scene like that. Certainly hadn't expected to feel the flicker of jealously aimed at John who seemed to be adored by his parents, despite their misgivings about the way he was raised.

It had all been so baffling and unexpected that he had just stayed quiet, so as not to say something he might regret.

"Did you really electrocute a bird?" John asked suddenly.

"What?"

"You, when you were my age. Mycroft was telling me some of the things you did. And Grandad."

Suddenly the world righted itself and Sherlock felt seething jealousy at his father for gaining the title so quickly. "I image a scathing tone was used."

"No," John kicked at the snow on the pavement, the dirt having turned it a rather disgusting shade of brown. "They were smiling about it. It was funny."

Unsure of how to deal with that, Sherlock simply ignored it. "I was experimenting," he sniffed. "To prove there was no possible way the book was correct."

"That's what Mycroft said," John nodded, suddenly sounding serious. "They're going to find some photos next time for me to look at. Grandma said you dressed like a pirate."

"You…" Sherlock hesitated, "Discussed me?"

John nodded, as if it had been an expected topic of conversation.

"I see." Sherlock tried to picture it but somehow failed to do so. "So you had a…good time?"

"Yeah," John nodded. "Mycroft's ace at chess isn't he?"

No. "He's predictable," Sherlock sniffed. "He'll give up anything to win."

John looked up, surprised. "You make it sound like a bad thing."

Deciding that analogies might admittedly be a little beyond a ten year old, even his ten year old, Sherlock brushed a hand over John's hair. "Molly had a body come in today. Another poisoning."

"Is it a case?" John asked eagerly.

"Not one I'm involved in," Sherlock said dismissively. "Shall we solve it anyway?"

John nodded, a huge grin on his face.


	14. New Year's Eve

**New Year's Eve**

Chapter Summary: Having made a promise, John goes to Lucian and Bella's New Years Party and meets some interesting people.

Warning: Slight cliffhanger and themes that have already appeared in this fic.

Also, happy New Year to you all. I hope you all have a lovely time :)

Thank you to NicolettelliW for all her help :)

* * *

**31****st**** December 2005**

John backed away nervously. "Do I have to?" he whined.

"You agreed to go," Sherlock pointed out, a little too smugly in John's opinion. "You therefore require this," he said, holding out the black piece of fabric.

"But…" John pulled a face. "Please?"

"Either go and wear the appropriate clothes, or don't go and stop whining about it."

It was really tempting, John thought as he stared at Sherlock. The idea of going to this party had seemed like a good idea at the time, especially when his grandparents had mentioned that there would be other kids going his own age.

They'd made it seem so sensible and fun. That was until Sherlock had snorted and muttered something about suits, crab salads and dancing.

John was still kinda hoping that last one was a joke. Or, if he were wishing for things, it was all a joke. His grandparents had been so pleased when he'd said yes. Even Mycroft had cracked a small smile.

He really didn't want to make them sad, or start another fight. Things were going so well at the moment.

Reluctantly, he held out his hand and took the bow tie thing. Studying it, he turned it over in his hands before looking up at Sherlock, baffled. "What do I do with it?"

Sherlock eyed him thoughtfully. "I deleted it," he said after a moment. "But…" he beckoned John over and knelt down, laying the fabric under John's collar and tilting his head. "I can work it out."

"Sure you don't want to come?" John asked hopefully as Sherlock lay the stands over each other muttering to himself. "You could tell me how stupid they all are."

Sherlock raised his eyes briefly. "I'd be stupid if I fell for that." He pulled a face and undid his work, starting over again. "And I'm starting to wonder about your level of intelligence for wanting to go."

John stared at the wall and Sherlock paused.

"You do…they haven't pushed you into going?" Sherlock asked, suddenly looking him up and down.

"No…they seemed really happy that I said yes."

Sherlock pulled back looking confused. "You are aware that doesn't stop that from saying no?"

John nodded but Sherlock seemed unconvinced. With an annoyed sound he pulled back and reached for his phone.

"Seriously," John pleaded. "It's fine. If I hate it I'll call you."

Sherlock ignored him, his fingers flittering over the buttons.

"I don't want to disappoint them."

Sherlock's thumb paused and he looked at John.

"It starts in forty minutes," John added. "They'll be looking forward to it."

Sherlock continued to stare.

"I'll know for next time," John continued. "Think of it as a lesson."

Sherlock slowly looked back down at his phone and then his fingers flew again, texting. He slipped the phone in his pocket then continued fixing the bow-tie

"Who did you text?" John asked.

"Unimportant," Sherlock dismissed. "But I want you to promise that should you feel…uncomfortable you will get in contact with me."

John nodded.

"The words," Sherlock prompted, sitting back on his heels as he managed to complete the bow tie.

"I promise," John huffed, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock's hands suddenly slid up, cupping his cheeks as the man studied John. Then he shook his head and stood, just as a text alert went off.

* * *

Maybe it was because Sherlock had lowered his expectation, but he was actually enjoying himself. Some of the kids were horribly spoiled, but some were fun. They had a brief game of shoving ice cubes down people's shirts and dresses as they sat in their chairs before Chris' dad caught the four of them and punished them with ice cubes down their shirts.

It had been freezing. No wonder all the people had yelped. Mycroft had watched with amusement as John had wriggled at the sensation.

And it was weird to see the way everyone reacted to the Holmes family. Most people seemed eager for Mycroft's attention while they all seemed to respect his grandparents. His grandmother looked elegant and…warm, which sounded stupid, he guessed.

"Have you tried some of the buffet?" she asked, catching him in between games.

John peered down at the table and turned to her. "Which one's got crabs in it?" he asked warily. "Or weird things?"

"Did your father tell you that?" she asked, frowning.

"It came up," John said trying to not look to disturbed at the idea.

She smiled down at him and led him to the table. "Here," she said. "Chicken, coleslaw, ham. Potatoes. Crisps."

John peered at them all, satisfying himself that they all looked the same as normal. "Where's the fancy stuff?"

"At the adults table," she said, nodding to what looked like a huge dead fish on the table across from them.

John stared at the unseeing eye and then at the rather elaborate looking food surrounded by quite a bit of greenery. "You can have some from here if you like," he offered.

She laughed, sounding delighted and reached out, popping a crisp in her mouth as she winked at him before finding a plate for him.

"Sit down to eat it," she added, pointing at the table to the side. "I imagine your fellow miscreantswill be joining you soon."

John hesitated suddenly. "Am I being too-"

"No," she shook her head. "I believe the expression is 'delightfully cheeky' rather than naughty."

He could live with that.

* * *

Outside, Mycroft approached the figure standing on the balcony, staring down at the gardens below as he smoked.

"Mother will have your head if she catches you."

"I doubt not smoking will change that," Sherlock said, taking a deep drag. In the cold weather the smoke billowed up as Mycroft stood next to him.

"Why not let them know you're here?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock ignored him. "John's enjoying himself."

Mycroft wasn't entirely sure Sherlock was pleased with that. "It's good," he pointed out. "They'll be his classmates."

Sherlock pulled a face at that. "I know," he scowled, glaring out at the night.

"You should talk to them," Mycroft added, taking a sip of brandy. "You may have to put up with their presence in your flat at some point."

Sherlock turned to him quickly, "Why?"

"He may wish to invite them over."

Sherlock looked pained at the idea, but turned back to the gardens as if seeking the answer to his distaste at the idea in the view.

"I see Mr Pentay is still having his affair," Sherlock said after a moment.

"Indeed. One does wonder why, after fifteen years, he doesn't simply end the marriage."

"Coward," Sherlock said dismissively. "All of them: they're so hypocritical and useless."

"You're generalising," Mycroft warned quietly.

Sherlock smiled. "No greater crime in your eyes."

Mycroft smiled as he took a sip. "Did you see David Myer tonight with John?"

"Ah yes, the ice cube punishment," Sherlock shook his head. "I still remember when his mother bit him after he bit you."

Mycroft nodded slowly, "They seem to have developed an interesting tradition for punishment. His son and John appear to partners in crime this evening."

"I suppose of all the people here John could have picked worse."

"Indeed. Were you aware Lisa Williams married and had children?" Mycroft asked, thinking of the irritating peer of his.

"I rather believe I had deleted that horrendous fact," Sherlock said, turning suddenly so he was leaning back against the rails and looking into the grand room.

"Strange isn't it? To see those we grew up with have children of their own."

"No," Sherlock tilted his head back as he breathed out the smoke. "Strange how most you grew up with have children by now."

Mycroft swallowed. "You sound like mother."

"And your reasoning is foolish," Sherlock replied flicking away the butt of the cigarette.

"Leave it alone, Sherlock."

Suddenly Mycroft felt his brother's attention snap away from him as he stood up properly, alert. Curious by the sudden change, Mycroft turned to see Alice Watson greet a couple.

"Where's Nigel?" Mycroft asked, eyes darting around the crowd.

"Where's John," Sherlock snarled, striding forward.

* * *

He, Chris, Max and Phoebe had snuck upstairs for a game of hide and seek. There were some epic hiding places around the place – heavy curtains and deep furniture were fantastic for it and it had taken Max ages to find all of them.

But Max had found John first so it was his turn to search for them all.

Laughing, he dashed down the hall, ignoring the rooms that had been useless when he's looked for a hiding place.

Someone was in the hallway and he skidded, trying to miss them and not slow down too much. "Sorry," he called.

And panicked when a hand shot out and grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, lifting him off his feet. He ended up being pushed against the wall, staring up at a familiar face.

Horrified, he stared up at Nigel Watson, swallowing nervously without a clue of what he was meant to say.

"How dare you?" Nigel asked, "Come here with the decent people you little thief."

John tried to squeeze himself back against the wall. "I…"

But Nigel wasn't having it. Instead he shoved John harder into the wall. "I will not have you ruin my reputation," he hissed. "Leave, before they connect us. Run away."

John stared up at him, hating the fact that they shared the same eyes and colouring. The memory of his Mum's tears after seeing this man, of the look, the screaming the shouting, the horrible words.

But he hadn't had Sherlock then.

"No," John said, hating that his voice wobbled and broke as he said the single word.

The blow took him by surprise. His cheek suddenly burned from the slap and his cheek smarted as one of the rings on Nigel's hand caught the skin. Stunned, he raised his hand to his cheek and stared at the drops of blood that came off.

Nigel grabbed at him again. "They won't want you when they know," he hissed.

"They know already," John protested, wriggling.

"That you've stolen? Been used to break into a house like theirs?"

John stared up at him, horrified. "How-"

"Your mother thought the story would tug at my heart strings," Nigel scoffed. "How trapped she was, forced to let you wriggle through a window for burglars." He leaned forward and John winced at the smell of alcohol. "You both disgust me. Rotten to the core, you and your mother."

At the mention of his mother, John felt his temper rise. "We had to," he hissed. "You threw her out."

"Because of you."

John's breath hitched and he tried to press back into the wall, hoping stupidly that he would manage to vanish through it.

"Every bad thing she has done had been because of you," Nigel snarled. "You've poisoned everything."

John sucked in a sob, determined not to cry in front of him.

"They shouldn't have broken your arm," Nigel added. "They should have done us all a favour and gotten rid of you, once and for all."

This time he couldn't stop the hitched sob and the way his vision blurred.

"Run," Nigel snarled at him.

John stared up at him, too scared to do anything.

"Remove your hands from my nephew."

Nigel stiffened and let out a scornful puff of whiskey soaked breath before he turned his head. His body blocked John's view of Mycroft.

"This isn't the same Mycroft," Nigel said after a moment. "At least with you there was some hope of improvement. This boy is rotten to the core, there's nothing there to salvage."

John closed his eyes, not wanting to hear what Mycroft was going to say. What if he agreed? What if he joined in? What if he suddenly realised and was upset?

"I suggest you do not make me ask twice."

The bruising grip suddenly vanished but John remained exactly where he had been pressed, not daring to move.

"Come here, John."

Instantly obedient, John scampered forward, Mycroft looked tall and menacing and didn't look at him as John darted him. Instead, like Sherlock sometimes did, he lifted his arm for John to duck under.

Wanting desperately to hide somewhere, John pressed his face into Mycroft's side and felt Mycroft's arm lower to curl around him protectively.

"He's fooling you-"

"You were not invited," Mycroft said firmly.

"Because of him?" Nigel sneered. "I will not have that boy associated with me-"

"Most people had forgotten," Mycroft argued. "You have reminded them, not us."

"The boy carries my name."

No. It was his mum's name and fuck him if he thought he was giving it up. Riding on the swell of temper, John started to pull out of Mycroft's comforting hold but the arm tightened, preventing him from looking over.

"It's a common name," Mycroft said simply.

Despite everything, John almost sniggered at that, knowing it would infuriate Nigel. Under him he felt Mycroft tense, not in fear but just as if he were getting ready for something.

"I don't think your grandfather did a thorough job with you," Nigel sneered.

A tremor of something went through Mycroft. "I'm sure you can imagine how much I care about your attempts at a thought process," Mycroft hissed, suddenly sounding a lot like Sherlock.

"There's a failure in every generation, isn't there Mycroft?"

John pressed against his uncle, wanting to help yet having no idea how to. But he was shocked when suddenly Mycroft's body rumbled with laughter.

"Something funny?" Nigel asked, sounding more annoyed that Mycroft wasn't afraid.

"I fear it would go over your head."

There was a snort. "I do hope you remember our chat, John."

John just pressed into Mycroft. A hand rubbed his back gently, then paused.

"Sherlock, leave it," Mycroft suddenly called.

Sherlock?

John pulled away from Mycroft and flew at his father, not even caring that Sherlock and Nigel were glaring at each other. Sherlock turned to pull him close and then froze, the fury on his face making John nearly fall over himself as he stopped suddenly.

Then his mouth gaped as Sherlock turned and threw a punch at Nigel, catching the older man as he stumbled and almost throwing him up against the wall.

"Sherlock!"

"He hit him," Sherlock growled, fingers tightening around Nigel's throat.

A hand suddenly reached around to cup John's chin and tilt his head up. Mycroft's face suddenly turned to thunder and John curled in on himself

"Go downstairs," Mycroft said, raising cold eyes to Nigel and Sherlock.

* * *

A little lost and suddenly scared of all the people downstairs, John stuck to the edges of the room, carefully making his way around until he spotted his grandmother doing up the bow of a little girl.

His friends were probably still upstairs, John thought suddenly. They were probably starting to think he was rubbish at hide and seek.

"Grandma?"

The word came out without him really thinking about it. She turned, her face lit up before it suddenly dropped at the sight of him.

He flinched back, even as she came forward and, like Mycroft, cupped his chin. "What happened?"

"I…nothing," he hunched his shoulders, wondering what he looked like.

"Sweetheart, someone's hit you," she breathed, tilting him up to the light so she could see the marks better. Then she paused and turned to look at a lady across the room, straightening angrily.

"No," John blinked in confusion having no idea who the woman was. "It was a man upstairs. Sherlock and Mycroft are talking to him."

His grandmother hesitated, her eyes looking up, then over John's head.

"Did you see Nigel go up?" she asked.

"They're leaving soon," his grandfather's tired voice said.

"Did you see Nigel-"

"It was him," John huffed miserably.

"What do you mean-" his grandfather said behind him, suddenly sounding alert.

His grandmother put her hand on his shoulders comfortingly. "It's all right sweetheart."

"Bella?" his grandfather was starting sound really pissed off. "What's happened?"

"He hit me," John shrugged her hand off and turned around. "It's not a big-"

His grandfather's pale face made him stop. He seemed to be struggling to breathe as he stared at John's cheek.

Jesus, no-one had been this fussed when his arm had been broken. It was a bruise and a cut!

"You need some ice," his grandfather said eventually. "Come on."

* * *

"You let him in?" Sherlock stormed in, the doors banging in his wake as he entered the hall to the kitchens where they were sat. "You let him near my son."

"Has he gone?" Lucian asked, standing up.

Sherlock sneered, "Of course he has; do you really think I would be here if that man were remotely near the building?"

Behind him, Mycroft entered with far less drama, his face drawn and tight.

"What did you do to him?"

Sherlock's face spasmed in fury. "Nothing he didn't deserve-"

"Do you think I'm concerned about him?" Lucian asked. "I couldn't give a damn if he were bleeding in a gutter somewhere. What I care about is if you will be held up for it."

Mycroft shook his head minutely. "Unless he wishes to discuss what led to it."

"You lecture me about being irresponsible," Sherlock sneered. "He should not have been allowed anywhere near-"

"And you should have brought John down before you did anything," Bella said, standing and leaving John sat on a seat alone. "I can't believe the pair of you! He'd been hit and you brushed him off-"

"Brushed him off?" Mycroft asked, sounding taken aback.

"He was scared-"

"Because Nigel had been let in the building-"

"You care more about your own vengeance than your son," Bella scolded.

Sherlock took a furious step forward. "What did you just say?"

"Don't you dare talk to your mother like that," Lucian snarled.

"Oh yes, it's just your wife you wish to defend-"

* * *

John stared at them all, his heart slumping until it weighed down in his stomach painfully.

"_You're poison."_

He skulked backwards, eyes darting from angry face to angry face.

Then he turned.

"_Run__.__"_


	15. Try

**Try**

Chapter Summary: John's vanished and Sherlock can't think.

Thank you to NicolettelliW for betaing this chapter and I hope you are all feeling considerably healthier than I am this morning; wine has become my arch nemesis! Thank you all so much for the reviews :)

* * *

**1st January 2006**

The fireworks had faded from the sky and all that was left was the falling rain. After the chaotic noise and the way the entire sky had seemed to light up with the colours of various fireworks, the world suddenly felt very quiet and very lonely. Sitting in the climbing frame's hut, John stared out at the darkness feeling cold, wet and miserable. He was curled up in the corner, arms around his knees and his hair was starting to itch. Everything felt wet and soggy and freezing.

He didn't know where to go. He'd snuck past the ticket barriers and hopped on the tube until the end stop, then wandered in the rain. It was stupid; if you were going to run away you should at least have a plan.

Maybe he'd figure it out when it got light.

* * *

"Where is he?" Sherlock ran his hand through his wet hair, his thoughts so jumbled nothing seemed to make sense.

Lestrade watched him helplessly, "We're scanning the cameras in the area. But the crowds-"

"I don't care," Sherlock roared. "I don't care why you can't do something, just find something that you can do."

"You need to calm down-"

"He's ten!" Sherlock started to pace, oblivious to the torrential rain. "He's never deliberately run away."

"But he has been out in London on his own," Lestrade reminded him. "He's not silly, your lad. He knows what to look out for."

Sherlock turned to stare at him. "He is out there, alone, upset, injured. I should have murdered that bastard," he muttered to himself.

"Probably not the best thing to say in front of-"

"I don't care!"

Lestrade backed away, looking unhappy as he snapped out orders to the officers.

Pacing Sherlock desperately tried to focus, to get his mind to think. Where would John have gone? Why had he gone? But all he could think of was John out in the rain, unprotected with bruises on his skin and that cut on his cheek.

A soft hand took his arm and he pulled away immediately, unable to listen to his mother berating him.

"Sherlock," she said softly. "Listen to me-"

"I don't want to hear it."

"Please," she whirled in front of him blocking his path. "Just listen."

No, he needed to find John. As soon as his brain jumped into focus, as soon as-

"I know," she took a deep breath, eyes bright and cheeks streaked with tears, "I know that…he ran because we were arguing. Again."

Of course! That was it. How had he not seen that? Sherlock half expected to have a blinding flash of brilliance and yet nothing was happening at all.

"It has to stop."

And there it was, another snide lecture about how he needed to control his temper and consider others-

"We'll back off."

What? He blinked at her blankly.

"We…if we can't get on, if it upsets him this much," her voice wobbled unsteadily and the tears started to flow again, "We'll…"

"I can't," he shook his head. "I can't think-"

She pulled him close and he bowed his head on to her shoulder, breathing in the same smell that he had hid in when he was five years old, confused and lost.

"We'll talk about it when we find him," she soothed, stroking at his hair. "But when we do find him, I just want you to know that there is a solution. You won't have to worry about it again."

"I can't lose him," he whispered into her shoulder. "I can't think."

"Oh sweetheart," an arm went around his back. "You won't lose him. I promise you. You won't lose him."

Sherlock closed his eyes as the rain poured, feeling more useless than he ever had in his life.

* * *

There was a noise.

John pushed himself back against the wall, trying to make himself as small as possible. It seemed unlikely it was teenagers hanging around in this rain and most people would find somewhere relatively dry and sheltered to conduct any business-

Footsteps.

Definitely footsteps.

He curled in, pressing a hand over his mouth to silence his breathing, hoping that nothing could be heard over the rain-

Mycroft.

John stared blankly, not really sure what to do as Mycroft took a deep breath and then looked around. With a slightly pained look at the small shelter he pulled himself in and took a space across from John.

"You certainly managed to cover a large area," he said, his soaking umbrella half outside so there wasn't a puddle.

John dropped his hand from his mouth and put his chin in his knees as he shrugged.

Mycroft seemed to nod to himself and they sat, listening to the rain on the roof. It seemed to really pick up with a vengeance and the sound was deafening.

An age later it started to slow and John looked over at Mycroft who seemed lost in his own thoughts.

"I make them fight," John said quietly.

"No you don't," Mycroft said absently.

The tone made John study him curiously. It was strange seeing his Uncle in the little hut. He always seemed so calm, so dignified and posh. Suddenly, he seemed smaller somehow, less in control, less unapproachable and John was reminded of the words Nigel had said to him, the hints that everyone danced around.

"Sorry," John said on a sudden whim, "About what he said to you."

Mycroft turned his head to John, a frown on his face. For a moment, John thought he had offended the man but then Mycroft let out a long sigh and shook his head.

"Never apologise for the actions of that man," he said, looking back out at the rain. "He is nothing to you."

That wasn't exactly true, but John didn't argue with him. Instead he shifted, aware that Mycroft had been out in the rain because of him and suddenly imagining the chaos that might have occurred.

"Is everyone mad with me?"

"Mad?" Mycroft sounded as if he'd never heard of the word. "No John, they aren't mad."

Great. John slumped. It was bad but he'd sort of hoped that some kind of fuss would have been made about his disappearance.

As if sensing his thoughts, Mycroft frowned. "Worried sick would be a far more apt phrase. Your father is so worried he can't even think."

Yeah, right.

"John," Mycroft voice turned commanding and John looked over obediently. "The closest tube station is obvious from the exit you used. Of course you would want to stay on until the last stop. The man hasn't even worked out what exit you left through he's so scared. Why do you think I'm here instead of Sherlock?"

"Because he's angry or doesn't care," John said petulantly.

The look he received was doubtful and John suddenly felt a flicker of guilt. Perhaps Sherlock had been that upset…it sounded unlikely but not impossible.

"Are you angry?" John asked when Mycroft said nothing more.

"Not with you," Mycroft said eventually.

"Then who?"

"Myself," Mycroft shifted. "Your grandparents, your father. We haven't handled this well."

"It's okay-"

Mycroft looked around where they were sat. "It seems it," he said wryly.

"I shouldn't have…" John felt tears well in his eyes and ducked his face into his knees. "I'm sorry. But he said it was my fault and that everything I touch I ruin and you were all fighting and angry and you're always angry and-"

He broke off when an arm wrapped around him and pulled him close into Mycroft's side. Tired, wet and cold, John turned into the hug gratefully, trying to stop the tears that were spilling down his cheeks.

"When I was your age I was clever," Mycroft said quietly. "But…but unlike you I wasn't well liked. I wasn't athletic or funny, I wasn't handsome or popular. I tend to hold back, to watch and observe before making a move and children find that…anyway. My grandfather wanted all Holmes' to be perfect, to be good at everything. He attempted to…educate me into changing."

John peeked up, able to see the curve of Mycroft's jaw from his position. "He hurt you?" he asked.

"Yes. And…when you're a child it's easy to believe…my mother would ask about my day, friends and my father would try to encourage me to get into sports in an effort to mix with children my own age. They were eager for me to be settled and have friends and I saw it as something else. I believed they knew what my grandfather was doing and approved, just didn't speak about it."

"But they found out?" John asked, pulling away a little to look at him.

Mycroft nodded. "They were furious," he said mildly. "And suddenly everything was difficult. There were fights, tears, late nights spent with my father drinking in the study or my mother staring at nothing."

"That's not your fault though," John said, disliking the tone.

Mycroft turned his head down to look John in the eye pointedly.

"Oh," John said, suddenly getting it. "But…it's not the same. I haven't been hurt."

"That mark on your face would beg to differ," Mycroft said calmly. "And," he added when John sucked in a breath to brush it off. "Physical violence isn't the only way someone can be hurt."

John nodded thoughtfully at that.

"What did he say to you?"

John hesitated.

"I had to drag your father off of Nigel in the end," Mycroft said calmly. "Believe me, he cannot fall further in our estimations. Nor will we ever be friends."

Burying his head in Mycroft's wet coat, John thought about it carefully.

"Nor will it ever affect the way we think about you," Mycroft added, tightening his arm.

"We…we didn't bump into him," John whispered. "We…Mum went to him for help. A…one of Mum's mates swindled them all and they were desperate. They…there was a house and I let them in."

Mycroft's arm didn't move, his breathing didn't change. John waited, sure that at some point Mycroft would push him away or show some sign of disapproval.

There was nothing.

"And…" John pushed his cheek against the material. "She told him. She wanted to get him to help or lend us something, but he…he went mad. He kept screaming that she was a disgrace and I was…that I should have been…"

This time Mycroft made an angry movement and John froze.

"He said…" John licked his lips. "He said I ruined her life and that I was poison."

"And then we fought," Mycroft sighed.

John nodded slowly.

"Your father," Mycroft said slowly, "Has never forgiven me for one thing. One single thing that I did when he was a teenager that he had never been able to excuse."

"What?" John asked curiously.

"I didn't tell them that he wanted you."

John pulled back, stunned.

"Your father…" Mycroft sighed. "He can spot the mystery of a murder, the hidden clues to a suspect, but he cannot work out his own heart. He has no idea what it wants or how to show it. But he wanted you, he barely had time to get used to the idea before you were gone. And then when you came back into his life…"

Tense, John listened as he bit at his lip, not sure what he would hear.

"He has gone through a lot, become far more cynical, far more distant. Is able to lie to himself about what he wants and what he needs. The fact that he was even interested in you was a miracle. Then he took you, without any prompting or interference-" Mycroft broke off shaking his head. "My point is, and I am digressing, is that we have all grown apart, allowed wounds to fester. The reason we are arguing, John, is because we usually tell ourselves we do not care enough to bother. Now that you are here we are remembering that we do care. The fact that we argue means we are trying."

John watched him doubtfully.

"But we are not trying hard enough," Mycroft admitted. "You are such an easy child, John. Independent, likeable, patient; we have assumed you were doing far better than you were."

"I'm not-"

"John." Mycroft levelled a firm look at him. "You are in the unfortunate position that because you are Sherlock's son, everyone will expect you to say what you want, to say no to something you don't want to do without any prompting."

"But, I don't mind-"

"Why should our opinion and feelings be worth more than yours?"

John slumped. "I just…don't want to be a burden," he whispered.

Mycroft shook his head. "You are far from that John," he said, his tone far more gentle than Joh would ever have expected.

* * *

It was almost half past five.

Some idiot in the police force had brought him coffee. Three cups, all untouched, all ignored, all hated.

He wanted his son. Not coffee, why was that not sinking in?

His father had returned from one of the searches looking tired and worn as they sat at the hotel's entrance; the staff being understanding yet equally useless in finding and retrieving his son.

Outside, the rain had finally started to slow and Mycroft's car drew up. Sherlock watched it, feeling utterly hollow.

Had John even eaten properly at the party? What if he were hungry and alone? Or someone had found him and lured him in with the promise of food. Wasn't that what all the fairy tales warned against – having strangers offer food. Had John ever been read a fairy tale? Would he know that? Had he been told about the dangers of going out in the dark? His son, who seemed so knowledgeable about the world but didn't know that a women who drove off in a car with a middle aged wealthy man to 'con him' was a prostitute.

What had Anna warned him against? What if he didn't know how evil people could be? Sherlock had seen enough investigations involving children, though rarely worked them as they were far too dull. Painful. Dull? Not dull…painful now. Too close to home, too dangerous, too-

Mycroft had John.

Everything stopped. The terror that had stupid questions racing across his mind with such speed that he hadn't had a chance to even start to answer them, the vivid imaginings, all of it just stopped.

Safe.

Sherlock felt his heart nearly drop out of his chest in sheer relief and he just sat, staring at John, in Mycroft's arms as he eased them out of the-

In Mycroft's arms? Had he been hurt?

Launching himself out of his seat, Sherlock flew out through the doors and down the steps, almost within touching distance when he realised why Mycroft was carrying him.

John was asleep. Bundled in a blanket and fast asleep against Mycroft's shoulder.

Sherlock froze, part of him desperately wanting to check his son, to examine every inch of him to satisfy that curling terror that he hadn't been hurt. He needed to touch him, to smell him, to feel his weight and know without doubt that his son was safe and in his arms.

But John was asleep.

"Take him," Mycroft said quietly.

Hesitantly, as if John were a tiny baby he might hurt; Sherlock held out his hands and lifted John from Mycroft's hold. John stirred from the cold as he was moved and blinked up at him in hazy confusion as Sherlock pulled him in close and then almost sunk to the floor in utter relief.

"Don't do that again," he whispered fiercely as he clutched at the boy. "Never do that again. Promise me, you will never ever do that again."

John's hands just came up to link behind Sherlock's neck as he half nodded, half snuggled under Sherlock's chin. Sherlock pressed John against him and buried his face in the boy's hair, stunned at how much it almost hurt to imagine John not being in his arms.

"Sherlock," Mycroft had crouched. "We need to get him in and dry."

"Need a room," Sherlock said blankly.

"We have some."

Oh.

* * *

They'd had him briefly checked over and then into a bath and then into pyjamas and bed. Sherlock was all too aware that he'd been utterly useless during it.

He stared at John, snuggled into the full pillow with the blankets tucked under his chin.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm not leaving him," Sherlock said without removing his eyes from his son.

"I'm aware," Mycroft took a seat. "He and I had a discussion when I found him."

Sherlock stared at John, heart suddenly pounding as his son took a particularly long time to breathe out.

"Evidently Nigel Watson managed to play on his fear that John was to blame for our fighting."

"What?" Sherlock snapped, turning his head. "He said what?"

"I believe Nigel implied John was to blame for every single thing that had gone wrong in our lives. He suggested John 'run away'."

Should have hacked his limbs off and dug his eyes out with a spoon.

"He thought we would all be furious with him. It took some time to convince him we were neither angry nor unbothered by it."

Unbothered? Sherlock turned back to his son. He couldn't remember feeling more horrific in his life. Even overdosing and being in life or death situations had paled in comparison to having John run away.

He ached to wake him up, to explain that John was the most important thing in the world. He wanted to scream at his son for being so worried about everyone else and forgetting to put himself first. There was a desperate, tempting need to lock the boy in the flat and barricade the door with his own body to stop even the possibility of losing John again.

"I've done it all wrong," Sherlock whispered. "Everything."

"Of all of us, you may be the least to blame. You at least improved."

Sherlock almost smiled. "No white lies from you then."

"Do you think he would be better if we all walked away and left you to it?"

A week ago he would have said yes. Yesterday morning he would have said yes. But Mycroft had found John, his parents had looked after him while he dealt with Nigel. If it were just him and John, what had happened today could have been so, so much worse.

"No."

Mycroft sighed in relief. "I should tell mother and father," he said sounding a bit more like his usual self.

"I still reserve the right to be unhappy about it from time to time."

"Thank god," Mycroft said after a second. "I was beginning to fear you had been shocked into politeness."

"If I had been, I would have thanked you for finding my son."

"I found my nephew," Mycroft stood. "A thank you would have been insulting."


	16. Father-son conversations

**Father-son chats**

Chapter Summary: Sherlock finally decides that some conversations are necessary, even if their content is obvious.

* * *

Author's Note: Epilogue chapter will be up soon.

The plan is that I will write the series in this verse but I'd quite like to do a fun, in between sequel called "A series of firsts". So far I have things like Sherlock's first parents evening, first cold, John's first school fight and day at his new school. If anyone has anything they would like to see then just let me know.

Thank you to NicolettelliW for all her help betaing these last few chapters. She's been fab :)

* * *

**1****st**** January 2006**

It was so warm. Wonderfully warm and cosy, as the hand on his head raked through his hair in soothing motions. John buried his nose into the shirt that smelled like rain, whiskey, coffee and home

Comfortable, he dug his fingers into the silky material, clenching it between his fingers, He didn't want to open his eyes and instead squeezed his lids as tightly as he could, hoping he would fall back to sleep.

"Warm enough?" Sherlock asked sounding rather lost in his thoughts.

"Mm," John nodded.

It took him a while to wake up enough to realise that he was in an unfamiliar bed, cocooned in the covers and laying with his head on Sherlock's chest. Vague memories of being in the car last with Mycroft last night, then in the rain with Sherlock's pale face. Later, half asleep as he was popped in the bath and then tucked into bed; everyone being so quiet and watching with concerned eyes.

He'd run away.

"Shush," Sherlock soothed. "No-one is angry with you."

John clambered up, staring down at Sherlock nervously. His father just remained with his back to the pillows, watching him carefully.

"Did Mycroft tell you?" John asked in a small voice.

Sherlock nodded.

"I'm sorry," John launched forward. "I'm sorry I ruined your night and that you had to come and get me and that-"

Sherlock caught him and held him at arm's length. "Enough," he said firmly. "Enough. You are not to apologise, do you understand me?"

John nodded. "But-"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and John fell silent.

"You believed that I wouldn't care you were missing?" Sherlock asked.

The hurt in his voice made John duck his eyes and falter, "I…no, I just…I know you have important things-"

"More important than you?"

Hesitating, John tried to squirm, but Sherlock held him in a rock solid grip. "I…you said…the work is important. And you…we…you let me live with you."

Sherlock closed his eyes.

"I like it," John said, biting his lip. "I…I'm sorry, I know I keep causing a fuss and disturbing things-"

Then he was pulled forward into Sherlock's arms properly as the man sat up from the pillows. Sherlock was shaking his head as he pulled John in.

Worried, John tried to wriggle back but Sherlock wouldn't let him.

"Listen to me," Sherlock said tightly. "You…you are the most important thing. You will always be the most important thing."

This time John managed to twist out and stared at Sherlock with confusion. A terrible, awful blossom of hope was starting to beat in his chest.

"How can you not know that?" Sherlock whispered, reaching out to cup his head. "How can you think…You are my son. Mine."

Well, yeah. But then Sherlock had a hissy fit when Molly had touched the fingers that had been labelled as his. Unless…

"Wait, like…" John tilted his head. "As in…properly?"

A flicker of annoyance crossed Sherlock's face," As opposed to?"

"I dunno. You get possessive over the weirdest things."

"I do not get-" Sherlock cut himself off with a scowl. "That is not the point."

John felt himself start to grin. "So…you…you actually want to be my dad?"

A thousand expressions danced on Sherlock's face as he nodded.

Oh. John flopped down on the bed in the huge space next to Sherlock, letting the duvet fall over his head.

"I guess that's okay," John called from the duvet, trying to stop grinning like a complete nutter.

The duvet whipped off of him, "You guess that's okay?" Sherlock repeated.

Turning onto his back, John looked up at Sherlock and nodded shyly. The peeved expression fell away and Sherlock smiled and lay down next to him. John wriggled until they were lying side by side facing each other.

"Are you still gonna let me come on cases?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he turned onto his back. "I wish to be your father, not inanely dull."

"So I still get to see dead bodies?" John asked sitting up.

"Yes."

"And we can still go out to eat?"

Sherlock watched him scathingly, "Do I look as if I am about to buy an apron and cook?"

"No," John sniggered at the idea. "So I don't have to eat healthily?"

Sherlock danced his gaze to the ceiling, "Do not make me into a nag."

"Can't imagine you nagging," John giggled. "What about homework?"

"You will be doing it."

Crap. "But-"

"No. You will be doing it."

Groaning dramatically, John flopped backwards on the bed, letting his head dangle off the side.

Sherlock wanted him! Sherlock properly wanted him.

And they were in a really fancy room!

"Where are we?" John asked, blinking up at the ceiling.

"The hotel. We booked some rooms."

"Do we get room service?" John asked picking up his head to look at Sherlock. The serious look made him hesitate. "Sor-"

Sherlock reached forward, grabbed his ankle and pulled him down the bed towards the headboard. "Not that word again," he scolded.

"You looked unhappy," John defended.

"I…what Nigel said to you," Sherlock pulled him up to the sitting position. "About…" Fury crossed his face. "Never ever believe that."

He didn't want to think about it. He wasn't sure what Sherlock meant by-

Sherlock stroked the hair away from John's forehead. "You are not…you are and will always be the thing I am most proud of."

John almost ducked his head but Sherlock's hand stopped him firmly. "Even if I can't deduce?" he asked, the secret nagging worry rearing again.

"Even then," Sherlock agreed, pulling him close for another hug.

* * *

"How is he?"

"Whining about the fact I will check his homework from now on," Sherlock said, eyes fixed on the bathroom door where John was probably frolicking in the shower given his earlier awed expression at the amount of nozzles.

His father nodded and sat down next to him. His breathing seemed laboured somehow, as if he were steeling himself for something.

Dragging his eyes from the door, Sherlock glanced at his father's face and then rolled his eyes.

"Saint Mycroft hasn't passed on the fact that I do not wish to sever contact between you and John?" he asked with some irritation. "For a man who deals with information all day he is truly awful at relaying it."

"You weren't yourself last night," came the quiet reply.

He hadn't been himself this morning. Watching his son alive, happy and laughing had made him…sentimental in the extreme. "That does not mean I didn't mean it," he said, determined to leave it at that.

His father, however, seemed to have other ideas. "May…may I ask why?"

Sherlock stared back at the door, hating this with every inch of his being. "Because…I cannot and will not give him normalcy. I will not provide birthday parties or endure sleepovers. I will not make a packed lunch or wrap presents. I will go away on a case and there will be times I will not be home. And I cannot pretend that will not affect him if he doesn't have somewhere to go, nor will I pretend that there isn't some…use in the traditional, a use I will not be able to provide him with."

Next to him his father stiffened.

"Spare me the lecture about responsibility," Sherlock snapped. "I am merely being-"

"Responsible."

Sherlock tilted his head not sure he had heard that right. Confused, he slowly looked at his father.

"That's quite possibly the most responsible thing you have ever said," his father clarified.

Sherlock eyed him, a little worried. What were the signs of a stroke again?

"You never had to do this on your own Sherlock," his father said slowly, seeming uncomfortable by the look Sherlock was aiming at him. "It was never all or nothing."

Almost squirming now, Sherlock felt his lip curl in some distaste, from simple lack of experience in this kind of conversation.

"And John isn't lacking Sherlock," his father added, standing and clapping him on the shoulder. "You've done well with him."

"I've had him for three months," Sherlock protested. "I've hardly 'done' anything."

"You've done far more than you think you have."

Distinctly disapproving of the almost compliment, Sherlock waved him away. "Let's not give John a heart attack by sitting out here in a…relatively cordial manner."

His father nodded as he made his way to the door, then paused. "Your mother…the reason she's pushing so hard is because she believes there is a chance to get you back as well."

"Forcing things does not work," Sherlock snapped back.

"I see that," his father replied mildly. "Slowly but surely we are learning that."

Then he closed the door behind him, leaving Sherlock staring at the wooden panel.

Good god almighty, he needed a murder after drowning in this sentiment.

Preferably a violent one.

No.

A poisoning so John could come along as well.

Sherlock caught his thought process and nearly groaned.

He was done for.

* * *

"How long do you think it will last?" Lucian asked Mycroft after he finished his phone call.

"Pardon?"

"Sherlock. In this pleasant mood. How long do you think it will last for?"

"Probably until he meets the incompetent receptionist and her appalling grammar," Mycroft replied flippantly with a glare in the direction of the reception desk.

"Mycroft-"

His son looked up and scanned him carefully. "Will you ever forget the day I told you what had been happening?"

"No," Lucian replied hoarsely, the image in his mind scratching at his throat. "I wasn't asking how long he would remain interested in John, Mycroft. I simply wanted to know how long you thought he would remain…hesitant and vaguely repentant."

"A week," Mycroft predicted with ease. "Maybe less depending on whether he gets an interesting murder. Why?"

Lucian looked around, trying to make sure no-one would hear what he was about to say. Mycroft's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"I'm finding his attitude…" Lucian scrambled for the right word.

"Disturbingly wrong?" Mycroft offered with a twitch of humour.

"Indeed." Lucian let out a relieved breath.

"Agreed," Mycroft pulled a face as he lifted his coffee. "May Sherlock Holmes return to his usual caustic self before his next birthday."

"Amen."


	17. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Thank you to everyone who has read this and given it a go!

* * *

**January 2010**

He had a while before he needed to examine the bruises. Determined to be efficient, Sherlock gazed down the microscope at the bacteria, noting the patterns as he compared the results to the pictured evidence.

"You forgot this in the morgue," John announced, tossing the crop onto the table beside the microscope. "Think you might have gotten Molly's hopes up," he scolded cheekily.

"You are far too young to be combining a riding crop with forms of sexual deviancy," Sherlock muttered as he adjusted the focus.

There was a loud crunch as John bit into his apple. "I'm fourteen," John huffed. "Not four."

Sherlock raised his eyes; briefly taking in the messy uniform, the slight stain on his shoulder, knees and trouser hem from where he'd been messing around with the football at break and lunch. The ink on his finger, too fresh too have been from the school day, but pressed into a certain spot only used when John actually attempted to make his writing legible…

"Clearly," Sherlock looked back down. "Four year olds are not given detention."

"I'm eating an apple," John offered. "Saving you from nagging. I'm pretty sure the two balance out."

"What was it for?"

A glance back up had him catching the crimson flush on John's cheeks.

"Love letters?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really John, do try to be a little more invent-"

"It was not a love letter," John said, with all the horror of a teenage boy. "It was a note. A question," he remedied. "And the lesson was boring."

He was actually telling the truth for once, Sherlock thought, rather than attempting his usual claims because he knew Sherlock would sympathise with the feeling.

"I need your phone."

"No," John hunched away.

Without looking, Sherlock held out his hand and clicked his fingers, then laid his palm flat demandingly.

"No-one else's dad nicks their phone," John complained, the words muffled around his apple as he bit into it to free his hands to pat around his pockets.

"No one else's dad let you play in a morgue from the age of ten. Pick your battles," Sherlock suggested as he felt the weight of the phone placed in his hand. It was tempting to check which girl's number was on his phone to deduce which girl it was he liked, but, while John had avoided many of his own less appealing traits, the ability to dig his heels in and stubbornly resist advice he hadn't asked for was one of the ones they shared and so, reluctantly, he simply sent the text.

"Green ladder?" John asked, reading the text as Sherlock handed him back the phone. "Stupid colour to paint a ladder," he muttered to himself as he put the phone away. "So will you be back tonight?"

"I've almost finished," Sherlock said. "Half an hour."

"Your half an hour or Mycroft's half an hour?" John asked with a grin.

"Brat."

"Lestrade was doing a press conference today," John said conversationally as he hoisted himself up on the table facing Sherlock's. "He had his 'I want to kill Sherlock' face on."

"You watched?"

John nodded. "Snuck out during lunch," he said sweetly. "You still think there'll be another suicide."

"Murder," Sherlock corrected absently. "It has to be. They'll slip up soon enough."

"There's a big interest in it," John pointed out. "Even Adam at school knows about it and usually he doesn't know jack shit unless it's been on a music channel."

"You have a point?"

"Just…it'll be a good case. But you'll get reporters."

"People are stupid, they forget," Sherlock dismissed.

"Mm," John said, clearly not convinced as he hopped down. The boy was full of beans tonight. "You want a tea?"

"Coffee. Molly was doing it."

Muttering something derogative about coffee under his breath, John walked to the door then, in a manner that was reminiscent of Sherlock's father, paused and turned.

"I…would you mind. If people read about what you did?"

"I fail to see how it is of any importance," Sherlock slid the slide off the microscope. "Why?"

"My English teacher suggested I write something outside of school, you know, like a blog? But…I don't want to write about me. My mates will read it and think I've gone emo or something."

Emo? Sherlock shook his head, rather sure he had deleted that at some point. "And?"

"Could I write about you instead?"

"If you must."

"You never know," John's voice danced back to teasing. "It might end up as a film. Sherlock Holmes, the great detective."

"Consulting detective," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How many times must I explain to your thick friends-"

"The kinky detective," John tried with a pointed look at the crop.

"Now you're being-"

"The name's Sherlock Holmes," John said, his hands in the air as if drawing the words in the sky. "And the address is 221b Baker Street."

And then, with a pleased smile, he ducked out of the room leaving Sherlock shaking his head at his dramatic idiot of a son.

Still, the phrase did have a good ring to it. He might have to use it himself one day.

Unless someone actually looked at that bloody blog.

* * *

End


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